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I seek the deep, dark sleep of giants. I privately hope for this every night I settle into bed. This quest is all the more elusive because the faintest flutter of a gnat, a room away, can cause a riot in my head.

One night my wish was granted. I slept deeply and dreamt I was engrossed in a lyrical text. I woke myself up to write the words that easily flow in dreams but evade while awake. These are the only words I can recall:

“Summer of our discontent.”

Intrigued, I wrote it and disappointingly returned to a haze of unremarkable dreams where neither words or music inspired another awakening.

The following day I persistently searched for these words in the world wide web. I hoped these words were mine and in some subconscious way, an “original” something I would someday write. I guess few things are truly original. Apparently Shakespeare beat me to the punch 5 centuries ago when he wrote the play, Richard III. His first line, “Now is the winter of our discontent/Made glorious summer by this sun of York.”

Darn. I suppose subconsciously I picked up the line somewhere and altered it to fit my state of mind.

At least for a few hours, I clung to that line and considered it my own. I savored the words and built bridges to new ones, and oh! summer of our discontent, what a brief but fierce companionship we shared those first few hours.

Now, beside my bed and sleeping husband, I keep paper and a pen. I hope to rescue other fleeting lines and words that flutter, astonishingly clear and sound in my sleep, from the hollows of my mind.

No longer will they scurry away when the day breaks.

July 22, 2010

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