Dreamed I was in a musical.
Which we all know I do not do, because I can't sing, and I don't dance.
At the end of the third act, I had this wonderful solo. I was allowed to speak my part instead of singing it.
I followed an amazing tenor, who sang an Italian Aria about a man who lost the love of his life.
She had her heart ripped out, and was left alone, bleeding, and dying, in an ally, during a storm.
As she took her final breath, he found her, cradled her in his arms, and pledged to avenge her death.
As he exited stage right, I entered stage left.
Same setting. Same ally. Still raining. His lover's blood still fresh and warm on the bricks.
My solo was actually a beautiful, interpretive dance, to the same piece of music as the tenor's Italian Aria.
I spoke different words in English. My song told the story of a woman, abandoned at birth, still searching for her mother.
The Italian tenor returned. He accused me of being the one who killed his lover. We struggled, and fought, and he stabbed me in the heart.
As I was dying, I reached out, ran my fingers through his wife's still warm blood, pressed my fingers to my lips, and whispered, "Mother."
The tenor continued his solo. He informed the audience that his wife died in childbirth, and it had taken him over 30 years to find her murderer, and avenge her death.
Of course, in that moment, as he held me in his arms, he realized his wife died because she was walking to the hospital alone, during a storm, because he was not at home. So he actually murdered his wife and his daughter.
Then he stabbed himself with the same knife he used to kill me.
In the dream the audience went wild, cried, clapped, and jumped to their feet for a standing ovation.
In real life; I woke up crying, "Mother."
Which we all know I do not do, because I can't sing, and I don't dance.
At the end of the third act, I had this wonderful solo. I was allowed to speak my part instead of singing it.
I followed an amazing tenor, who sang an Italian Aria about a man who lost the love of his life.
She had her heart ripped out, and was left alone, bleeding, and dying, in an ally, during a storm.
As she took her final breath, he found her, cradled her in his arms, and pledged to avenge her death.
As he exited stage right, I entered stage left.
Same setting. Same ally. Still raining. His lover's blood still fresh and warm on the bricks.
My solo was actually a beautiful, interpretive dance, to the same piece of music as the tenor's Italian Aria.
I spoke different words in English. My song told the story of a woman, abandoned at birth, still searching for her mother.
The Italian tenor returned. He accused me of being the one who killed his lover. We struggled, and fought, and he stabbed me in the heart.
As I was dying, I reached out, ran my fingers through his wife's still warm blood, pressed my fingers to my lips, and whispered, "Mother."
The tenor continued his solo. He informed the audience that his wife died in childbirth, and it had taken him over 30 years to find her murderer, and avenge her death.
Of course, in that moment, as he held me in his arms, he realized his wife died because she was walking to the hospital alone, during a storm, because he was not at home. So he actually murdered his wife and his daughter.
Then he stabbed himself with the same knife he used to kill me.
In the dream the audience went wild, cried, clapped, and jumped to their feet for a standing ovation.
In real life; I woke up crying, "Mother."
Comments
Post a Comment