The writer, standing amidst the cold metal stairway, shares his thoughts with the director on the stage, as the audience takes it in. “Am I not the master of my own destiny?”
The director’s face formerly indifferent, now twists into a grin, flushing red with rage.
“Am I Not The Master Of My Own Destiny!?”, the writer yells, gripping the railing tightly in his hand.
The grin of the director grows, wrinkling his face like an accordion, forming a most hideous smile.
The audience watches on intently as the writer attempts to declare his worth within the life of his script split in three.
The man stirs in his sleep becoming keenly aware of the slight ache in his calf. He points his toes, at once beginning the dance. A knot forms, pulling tight the surrounding muscle, tendon, and bone. The pain is immediate and overwhelming, as it tears open this reality.
The words from the dream ring out within his mind, as he cries in pain. “AM I NOT THE MASTER OF MY OWN DESTINY?”
This is how I was awakened at 1:00AM this morning. Barbara thought I was having a heart attack. I could barely talk through the pain as an old injury seized up my right leg. It is still hurting, although slight by comparison, an hour and a half later. I lie here in bed twisting my foot and contemplating the meaning of my dream.