there is a tiny death every day. waiting for the train, looking at the fellow passersby.

what dreams lurk beneath the surface of these troubled waters. ideas of dancing, ideas of climbing, of soaring, of swimming into uncharted depths. or simply a small wish for peace and a nights rest. these dreams sit in our eyes and blind us to the things in front of us from day to day. every moment precedes the next and so we are always ready to discard the current in hopes the next will bring fulfillment.

sometimes i have felt the dream fulfilled. a night in the woods sharing stories, a day on the sand with the cool breeze as my blanket. is it fair however that for each day i live, that i truly remember, a score pass by unnoticed? is this the exchange rate for the currency of sublime moments?

even worse for every hundred banal conversations about things and weather there is but one that i truly wish to have. if a book has one good page out of every hundred do we deem it worthy? an unfair metaphor to be sure, for the book is but one source, and the discourse of the mundane can flow from any font.