why/why not

if I couldn't walk, I'd dream of it and wake up
with a smile on my face, only to cry at the deadness in my legs.
if I couldn't play flute because my lips were swollen from a bee sting,
I'd salve them and wait impatiently for the day when they could form
the perfect note.
if I couldn't ride home from work, the wind pushing  hard
against me, I'd wistfully dangle my arm out the car window and
feel the breeze against my arm
so why is it that I don't rejoice in every moment of being able to
do, bridling against the imperfect, the tedious, the boring,
the usual, I berate myself for the lack of joy in the usual
when I want to be rejoicing.