Astral Travel

About midway last year I wrote a poem titled "Dream". I pause now while writing to debate if I should share said poem here. I don't think I will. It would be like those scientists who are sending messages out into space in hopes of finding extraterrestrial life. I have a feeling if anything reads this post, it won't bother to respond.
Still, the major point of the poem was how dreams must be stored some place truly safe. I picked the back of the universe, far behind even the stars. A truly Earth-centric view, but that's really the only view man can come to know. We've never been anywhere beyond the moon. And photographs are never the same as standing somewhere in person.
So, the poem pointed out how safe dreams and even nightmares really are. Untouchable to human hands and unreachable in terms of distance. And there, I was in bed feeling vulnerable in the world. Didn't anyone dream of me? The answer had to be no for I wasn't tucked away in the deepest reaches of space but in bed smack dab in the middle of Earth.
I shared that poem on a forum, and one of the other members commented on it. She went as far to say that if the last line, the one about no one dreaming of me, was meant in a literal sense than I was welcome to enter her dreams. But, she cautioned, I'd have to do some astral travel at that.
I stop here to contemplate the message sent. While this isn't anywhere near as serious as telling someone you love them, it must fall along the same rules. That is, you can't say it unless you really mean it. Imagine if I did stumble into one of her dreams only for her to feel violated. How would either of us recover from that?
And yet, if I actually knew how to project myself I think I just might. Though the whole thing doesn't seem possible to me. And how on Earth would I find this one person whom I've never met? I'd be amiss to recognize her in a crowd of people. How would I recognize her through her dreams?
Andre for a time a while back was very interested in astral travel and dabbled in it a bit. I've always meant to ask him if he's kept up with it, but he's so busy lately that I doubt he would have the time. I'm sure when he does sleep it is strictly for the rest. Traveling tires, why would the astral kind be any different?
In the end, this whole thought reminds me of how I've often times wished I were a thing rather than a person. A poem rather than a poet. A song rather than a musician. A dream rather than a dreamer. The body hurts, eventually and for always. The soul is trapped in a sinking ship forced to go down as its captain. But a poem travels from eyes and lips to other eyes and lips. A song burrows through ears and leaps from throats. A dream does whatever dreams do. They are always searching for the perfect home and are bound to find it. Younger, prettier, wiser. A fuller life awaits them. People await death. And you know the rest.