The executive doodles as PowerPoint graphs offer themselves to be his palette of oils upon the yellow legal pad, the only canvas the artist inside himself knows. The mother slowly pirouettes with broom in hand, the only dance partner the ballerina inside her heart knows. The commuter discovers an invisible microphone and sings to a packed stadium of fellow commuters in their own cars, while another, far away, carries the tune on his air guitar. And I leave my simple thoughts here.
Moments suspended in time, when in the womb of silence and alone, we are nourished by the cord of life and daring to remember the awe and wonder of our dreams, we reach out and touch.