Each morning when I awake, I experience again a supreme pleasure

Host: The morning light poured through the window like liquid gold, sliding over walls adorned with eccentric shapes, canvases, and mirrors — mirrors that reflected not the room, but fragments of the soul that had created it. The air was thick with the scent of paint, coffee, and the faint musk of dreams not yet dried.

On the grand mahogany table sat a half-eaten croissant, a porcelain cup, and a clock — melted, distorted, its hands drooping like exhausted wings. And beside it, as if belonging to this surreal kingdom, were Jack and Jeeny — the former studying a framed portrait of Salvador Dali with suspicion, the latter smiling as though she had found herself in a universe where reality had decided to take the day off.

Jeeny: (reading softly, her voice lilting with amusement) “Salvador Dali once said, ‘Each morning when I awake, I experience again a supreme pleasure — that of being Salvador Dali.’”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Only Dali could say that and make it sound profound instead of narcissistic.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Maybe because he didn’t mean arrogance. Maybe he meant awareness. The ecstasy of existence.”

Jack: “Or maybe he just meant ego with style.”

Jeeny: “Oh, Jack, even ego can be divine when it’s honest.”

Jack: “So, what — you think loving yourself is an act of enlightenment?”

Jeeny: “I think knowing yourself is. And Dali loved being Dali because he knew that being himself was his greatest creation.”

Host: The sunlight crept further across the room, landing on one of Dali’s paintings — a landscape where clocks dripped from trees and mountains melted into seas. The image shimmered faintly in the morning heat, as if time itself had joined the conversation.

Jack: “You sound like him — talking in riddles that make madness sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what life is? Madness arranged beautifully.”

Jack: “You know what I think? I think Dali’s quote is the purest form of vanity — the worship of self in a world that needs more humility.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the celebration of individuality in a world that demands conformity.”

Jack: “So narcissism as rebellion?”

Jeeny: “As art.”

Host: The wind outside whispered through the curtains, and the faint cry of a distant gull echoed across the coast. Jeeny’s eyes gleamed, catching the light, while Jack’s expression remained grounded — skeptical, yet curious, like a man standing on the edge of the surreal but refusing to fall.

Jack: “You can’t build a philosophy on self-pleasure. That’s the road to delusion.”

Jeeny: “You can if the self you’re celebrating is creative — if it’s not self-centered, but self-realized. Dali wasn’t saying ‘I’m better than others.’ He was saying, ‘I am alive, and the miracle is that I get to be me again today.’”

Jack: “That’s a pretty generous translation.”

Jeeny: “It’s a truthful one. You see arrogance; I see gratitude dressed flamboyantly.”

Jack: “Gratitude? Dali?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Gratitude that existence gave him the canvas of himself — a wild, unrepeatable experience.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked irregularly, its pendulum swaying like a slow metronome marking the rhythm of their dialogue. A ray of sunlight landed squarely on Jack’s face, warming one side while the other remained in shadow — the perfect image of skepticism and awakening caught in a single frame.

Jack: “You make self-adoration sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Because it can be. Think about it — how many people wake up and despise the person they see in the mirror? How many live without ever tasting the ‘supreme pleasure’ of being themselves?”

Jack: “Most people don’t have the luxury of painting melting clocks to justify their egos.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing luxury with courage. It takes courage to love who you are in a world that profits from your insecurity.”

Host: The light brightened, filling the studio with warmth, touching the silver brushes, the open paints, the glistening edges of half-finished works. The air shimmered, alive with possibility — like a day waiting to be painted.

Jack: “So you think we should all wake up feeling like Dali?”

Jeeny: “Not exactly. But maybe we should all wake up aware that we exist — aware that our being is art in motion.”

Jack: “That’s easy for artists to say. Most people wake up to alarms, not revelations.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe they need to learn to see the alarm as the beginning of their own masterpiece.”

Jack: (chuckling) “Now you sound like a motivational poster.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe like someone who believes that joy doesn’t have to apologize for itself.”

Host: The radio on the counter came alive suddenly, crackling with static before spilling into an old Spanish guitar melody — playful, sensual, alive. Jeeny’s fingers began to tap against the table in rhythm, her smile widening.

Jeeny: “You hear that, Jack? That’s what Dali meant. The world is absurd, the self is strange — but there’s beauty in that absurdity if you dare to dance with it.”

Jack: (watching her) “You make madness look appealing.”

Jeeny: “Madness is just truth without permission.”

Host: The room seemed to tilt slightly, as though the conversation had become part of Dali’s dreamscape. The walls breathed color. The light rippled. For a moment, everything felt slightly unreal — or perhaps more real than usual.

Jack: “You know, I think you might be right. Maybe Dali wasn’t boasting — maybe he was awakening.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. His ‘supreme pleasure’ wasn’t arrogance. It was consciousness. He noticed himself — as creation, as creator, as paradox.”

Jack: “And that noticing — that awareness — that’s the art.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The art of being.”

Host: The sea breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the scent of salt and the hum of sunlight. Jack stood and walked to the window, looking out toward the shimmering horizon.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the tragedy of most lives — not that they’re small, but that they’re unobserved.”

Jeeny: “And the remedy?”

Jack: “To wake each morning and remember — ‘I exist.’”

Jeeny: “To say, in your own way, ‘I am Dali.’”

Jack: (turning, smiling) “Without the mustache.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Optional.”

Host: The laughter filled the room — light, musical, unrestrained. The kind of laughter that breaks illusion and deepens it at the same time.

The painting on the wall — that famous landscape of melting clocks — seemed almost to smile back.

And in that golden room, Dali’s words no longer sounded vain but vital, a declaration of artistic survival:

That to awaken is to reclaim wonder.
That the self, fully seen, is not arrogance — but gratitude in disguise.
That every morning offers a chance to be both dreamer and dream.

Host: The guitar music faded into silence. Jeeny stood, stretching, her silhouette caught in the morning glow.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe that’s the only prayer worth saying at dawn — not ‘give me strength,’ but ‘thank you for being me.’”

Jack: “You think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s everything. Because once you can say that, the day is already a masterpiece.”

Host: The light shifted, brighter now, fuller, spilling across the canvases, across their faces, across the world.

And as they stepped out into the morning air — sun, sea, and laughter folding around them —
it was as if reality itself had bowed slightly,
whispering, with a surreal smile worthy of Dali himself:

“Each morning, remember — the art is that you exist.”