What Dreams are Made Of_Part Four: A Question of Time.

When golden rays came through the window and struck him boldly between the eyes it was 8:30 am. He pulled his covers over his head and turned his back on the sun as if he were hiding from a stranger. More than an hour later, half winched-up on one hip and using a hand to shield himself from the window, he gambled a glimpse at the clock.

Email: Check the net for jobs before the few new notices had been answered -and coffee if there was any. He passed his desk on the way to the shower. The pile of sketches gave him a sense of Déjà vu. He remembered the Moon. Imagination cradled his mind as a mother rocks her child, and he was afforded brief glimpses through her eyes. The moment broke abruptly in a gasp that released him into the world beyond the womb.

Watching the water rain down into the tub he felt his fatigue fade. His cat, a furry little person who kept a strict routine patterned from whimsical expectation, watched him drying off and demanded to be groomed. He obliged.

By the time he had slipped into his untied tennis shoes, his mind was racing again. He knew that the day was growing short and there was much to do; but how to choose? To survive and pay his way from week to week, while wearing his life down bit by bit; or to trust the talent that had given him a toehold in hope and a hiding place from the fear that fostered it. It was obvious that for progress to bloom, something must give way.

To be continued.