Alas, Poor Yorick!

     I dreamed the other night that I was trodding the boards in a local theater production of Macbeth, and landed the leading role as Hamlet, Prince of Denmark! I stumbled over my lines at the beginning of the first act but ended eloquently enough to garner the admiration of my fellow actors. Then came Intermission. Among the admirers crowded around the conference table in the break room was Johnny Depp. He was so impressed with my performance that he asked to read lines with me.

     Fortunately for me the intermission was a long one—several hours long; I couldn't remember any of my lines for the upcoming acts, I couldn't even remember rehearsing them. I was basking in borrowed glory. Thankfully, I awoke from my dream before the intermission was over with the phrase "Alas, poor Yorick!" on my mind, and only a vague uneasiness about the forgotten lines.

     They say everyone has their 15 minutes of fame. I think that was it for me. You might say it doesn't count because I dreamed it, but isn't fame as immaterial and illusive as dreams? It seems rather fitting, then, that my 15 minutes were something conjured by my subconscious.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

                                                                   ~ The Tempest ~

Painting by Pascal Adolphe Jean Dagnan-Bouveret