the truth is, dreams are inflatable,
and they get punctured. not by reality, but by bad dreams. reality
provides ample space for the dream to lay itself out. it even provides
advice about how to succesfully go about it through it's medium of
trialanderror. but bad dreams are the devil incarnate, because they
masquerade as reality. depression wears a mask named 'practicality' and
when depression has gone to enough trouble to disguise himself, the
dreamer doesn't wake up; the dreamer starts living a nightmare while
believing they're awake. and who can talk the sleeper into waking?
moreso, who can talk the woken into waking? to sleep 'that other,
better kind of sleep.'
i think that the definition of a dream is a good dream, and the definition of sleeping is a bad one, because you can live dreaming, but you can't live sleeping.
so the bad dream, (still a bold body, no matter how much i poke at its smokey, ghostly transperancy) has convinced me that my two lungs are the two legs of a prostitute. not any, but the first one i saw in highschool, that was just the amount of heroine i needed to make me think that i was liberating myself by becoming a slave to the west's hedonism. i say 'the west', i mean the society that i would probably create if given the chance. but oh, how my throat has been shamed.
i know it's a bad dream mum, but i dont want to wake up till it's too late.
i can have my dream, but i can't have my reality, because then i'd be loony. it has to be our reality. we share that, and there's nothing i can do about it. but in my dream i dont look as ridiculus as i do in our reality. in my dream, it wasnt so obvious that i forgot your name for a second, and even when i did, i covered believable for it. in my dream there's more to me. it's a whole nother person.
may i ask, to an unnamed but obvious contributor, how any one correspondent could be more foreign than the others? for an internet magazine, where the single postal code is 'cyberspace' and the global vilage fits cleanly between the two sides of my monitor, the only way for a correspondant to be foreign is for them to be amish. no?
cyberspace...what a dream.
my throat still kind of hurts