In my dreams I can sing like a bird. Waking up, I just croak trying. It saddens me that I can sing an aria only in my dreams. I always start on a high note. Why can’t I sustain it? Maybe it is the pollution, the congestion of the air that fails me.
In slumber I am an artist of black and white prints that reveal one mystery after another unfolding before my eyes. The next day I feel energized to create a masterpiece. Alas, my fingers recoil at the sight of my paltry attempts.
But awake I dance with a light foot and a dizzy head as I circle and swirl to my image’s delight, my heart as my witness.