What I wrote last night:
It's 3 in the morning.
I should go to bed.
But I can't sleep. I am exhausted, but I cannot sleep.
I'm far too happy to sleep - I feel as though my heart might explode, my smile might split my face in two, my spirit go soaring into the skies and never come back.
I danced tonight. I have blisters on my heels and aching in my legs.
But I have music on my mind.
What I wrote this morning:
Last night my dreams were filled with half-imagined, half-remembered dances and music. I wandered in and out of dream and memory, making no distinction between the two, and fully enjoying both. And then I woke up this morning, with blistering ankles and aching feet, and the reality of it all hit me. And yet, the true events were no worse than the dreamed ones.
And I can still remember vividly all the best (and worst) moments of the evening; all of which are too many and too precious to write into a mere list. It is the kind of thing that can only be captured in the best poetry or music, the sufficient skills for either of which I have none.
Is this what the perfect evening feels like?
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