Twisting arms and tearing pages off the calendar

I love to read about tilting at windmills, obsessions, success and failure. Today, I found a link to this strangely attractive tale of surging hope, failure, perseverance. This bears reading, I think, but who am I?

I've had dreams of scenes from somewhere. Nobody knows for sure where our dream scenes come from. They can be scenes from our past, maybe with a dollop of imagination painted over them. Take the paintbrush of hopes and dreams and shake the paint of needs and wishes to form drops of love and togetherness. I can figure that I might be in some scene like the one described in the story, though who knows what I'd be doing there? I'm awake now. Maybe tonight, when the covers close me in and dark reigns supreme, I'll find out.

Source.