This is a dream. Life. It’s a pathetic dream. Everyone to some degree misappropriating words to belong and out of temperament and not thinking of others often with a kind sentiment.
If only we could mend these cobbled weavings, trophies of all our wars combined, built with hindsight, depending on what new lie needs to be expressed.
I thought I told you. She said that. But then she doesn’t mean what she says. Now Toni, she means what she says but not what she does. Or so she says. She is an obstinate one. She is a manipulator. A narcissist. or maybe not so different than anyone else, addressing shadows in a mirror when she looks in your eyes. I can see myself flickering on a canvas just behind her eyes when she addresses me in my assigned role. And after I leave her presence my role continues in absentia.
Worm. Cul-de-sac. Lonely and free.
Put down the mind and step away from the slogans.
I don’t use slogans.
Yes, you do. Parenthetically.
No I don’t. I have my own mind.
Of worms and cul-de-sacs.
Just like you.
No. I find my way around.
Doesn’t mean that any place you are going is any place I want to be.
Maybe you should.
Me? I am the man. What have you ever become?
A chronicler of nobodies. Let me introduce myself. I am your author. And if I were you I would have a little more willing temperament towards those whom you perceive as beneath your dignity.
Ditto. And you are not my friend.
There’s a lot of anger in your voice, son, the preacher said. Lots of foolish notions about what your proper place is. I am your god, dad, employer, judge. You need me. Without me you turn to seed.
I always return to seed. Regardless of your deeds.
Ah, it’s just the weed. Makes you think you can be things you never really are.
Is that the way it makes you feel?
I don’t smoke weed.
Not since I was a kid.
You were a kid smoking weed…why?
No good reason. I was just a kid.
And you think that I am just acting out my inner child?
I don’t know what your deal is. I am just trying to give you some advice.
We all need goals…
What issue is it of yours what my goals are?
whoa whoa whoa. I’m just trying to be helpful…
“I am trying real hard not to be pissed off right now,” I told the guy in the suit and tie as i got into the elevator with my mop bucket. It was 1984. I was 20. He was an executive with an insurance company in the building. The next day I was fired because I “just wasn’t working out.”
I am a 58 year old anxiety ridden writer who just says all of this is me and it ain’t.
No. You are 56.
I am 58. I am the writer. See how that works.
Yeah. Sure. Be anything you want to be but you are still the same to me.
That makes me sad because I am filled with tragedy and the story, although tragicomedy cannot divest itself of the musical chaos from which this craziness has grown.
Pompous. You bore me.
I know. I am sorry. You will never know the extent of my self flagellation.
I will know you by your alchemy. I am your dream journal, I am you even if your characters aren’t.
Now you are boring me. Bilateral symmetry.