Dreaming. Writing.

I keep waking to the nightmare of a perfect opening line.

In my half slumber the opening line gives way to what comes next, a sentence followed by yet another.

Soon a paragraph emerges and the full landscape of my project unfolds, the horizon glorious and attainable.

In the winter months, these words march forth in the dark. Towards spring they join a liminal grey. Then they submerge, weaker than sleep, a promise for when I rise.

Once transcribed, the words appear stilted, awkward, ordinary. They convey meaning, but not magic, lined up and static.

I keep waking to the nightmare of a perfect opening line.

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