|
Jan. 14th, 2023|01:11 am |
the cynicism or stoicism necessary to bear the years the soul spends in this spinning orb should furnish one with the necessary resilience to bear the call from a brother at midnight (as we rumbled through Poland) of a father's collapse, but somehow it doesn't. It just - as it happens - changes the nature of how you see yourself - and the way the dreams (see you), too. Some kind of revolt borne of an imperative to take control.
There I was, taking my depressed wife to Paris, and sure telling her it was a just a dream. We had fun. We messed about with the sporting dream NPCs until some official from the spiritual template brothers lambasted us with the following rebuke:
"How dare you control this dream! You have no hat!"
My wife, enthused with impish gnosis, retorted with the following (while aligning a fetching cepure on her bonce):
"Never say no to a new chapeau!"
which rhymes.
The next night I told someone who was talking to me in a more intelligent manner than I could consciously muster that
"I was confused about existence."
He responded with imagery. Thousands of falling five-pointed stars and then, the planet as a negative.
She, the wife, laughed about it over a 0.5 beer later. but I am not so sure.
Anyone who doesn't wonder about existence in a non-profane manner needs to have a word with themselves. Preferably in rhyme. |
|