About a Daydream
It was me on the stage, I knew instinctively…yet somehow not me at all.
It didn't look like me in the same sense that an identical twin can somehow not look exactly like the other. The person in the dream was kind of glowing, her arms were muscled and defined-- a little sheen of perspiration gleaming on her skin.
Her hands were more elegant than mine too. The fingers were long and smooth and picked the guitar with dexterity. I had the impression that her hair was bouncing around and wild-- her face intense with emotion. Where were you when I wanted you, when I felt I needed you most? she cried into the mic. Why so many lonely hours--so many lonely minutes?
Her guitar cried along with her, both twanging in melancholy and resounding with regret. There were tears rolling down her face, not sad nor pathetic, just reflective. It was as though her own sounds had carried her back to those lonely days--as though she and her music were lamenting over their former self, saying "poor little wretch, I feel how much you hurt."
Her eyes were closed and a smile suddenly appeared on her face. But I twisted and turned out of that devil's snare, and now I don't need you anymore! she exclaims. Her fingers are wildly moving now and I can feel every note...every piece...every.
I loved this girl on that stage
I wanted to be her...Wondered if maybe...
I already was her.
What is it about a daydream?
It didn't look like me in the same sense that an identical twin can somehow not look exactly like the other. The person in the dream was kind of glowing, her arms were muscled and defined-- a little sheen of perspiration gleaming on her skin.
Her hands were more elegant than mine too. The fingers were long and smooth and picked the guitar with dexterity. I had the impression that her hair was bouncing around and wild-- her face intense with emotion. Where were you when I wanted you, when I felt I needed you most? she cried into the mic. Why so many lonely hours--so many lonely minutes?
Her guitar cried along with her, both twanging in melancholy and resounding with regret. There were tears rolling down her face, not sad nor pathetic, just reflective. It was as though her own sounds had carried her back to those lonely days--as though she and her music were lamenting over their former self, saying "poor little wretch, I feel how much you hurt."
Her eyes were closed and a smile suddenly appeared on her face. But I twisted and turned out of that devil's snare, and now I don't need you anymore! she exclaims. Her fingers are wildly moving now and I can feel every note...every piece...every.
I loved this girl on that stage
I wanted to be her...Wondered if maybe...
I already was her.
What is it about a daydream?