If I could raise a toast, I would. I would celebrate a victory of gritty substance over fantasy. I would cheer profundity in a vapid sphere that offers accolades to ephemeral vapor.
I would add my voice to a raucous crowd, one of a throng of celebrants unsure what to do with an unexpected and unfamiliar triumph. But it’s early, and one does not salute ungainly gains at such a tender hour, lest sleeping giants awaken with rage in their hearts and axes in their hands.
My question, always my question, is whether I am the giant whose slumber I protect or, instead, the target of his rage upon waking. And, so, I tiptoe on eggshells, afraid to allow the dream to play out, yet fervently wishing to peek at the conclusion of a tumultuous story.
