Those of us with constant inner dialogue tend to rarely get a good night's rest. We awake the next morning, haggard and aching, clinging to the delicious dreams we are destined to forget in a few hours time. Our lives are ruled by sensibility and a silent narration that turns the most mundane transaction into a thing of theatrics and bittersweet beauty. We mourn for our commonplace existence, but we are secretly too pleased with ourselves to feel more than a little sad. We are selfish creatures, all of us who prefer our own imaginings to actuality.
I keep on saying “I’ll start changing tomorrow” or “I’ll be a better person next week” when, in my heart of hearts, I know all too well that I will keep going on exactly as I have been. I write down an impressive list of goals that are guaranteed to never leap off the page and become an accomplishment. I’ve come to realize this technique will only work if you are courageous enough to bolt all the windows and doors behind you. The cold, unfeeling leap of faith is proving too great a feat for spineless little me.
If only these fellows knew how often I spend my evenings contemplating the irregularities of their behavior. One minute acting like an old friend, the next seemingly attracted to me, and then, as quick as a change from Dr Jekyll to Mr Hyde, they are condescending and ignoring! At these moments, I’m sure they hate everything about me. I pray for a bit of normalcy, and try to banish all my quirks. Alas, they are too fond of me to ever leave.
Shall I justify my eccentricities by explaining that I have been listening to heavy doses of Rachmaninoff and Debussy, reading too much Shakespeare and Chekhov? Clair de Lune and the art of longing must be old lovers, and Ophelia was the bedroom where they began their affair. My mind is so fixated on the past, on the make believe, on small gestures from yesteryear that only I would have the childishness to remember.
In my model of the universe, past, present, and future exist side by side. I’d like to think they are holding hands with one another. Time is fluid, and perhaps we are all swimming upstream.