Parallelism and Other Matters of the Mind

Had a dream about a little boy. I was looking out a window. It was snowing, so when I saw the blood shooting out of this boy’s chest, the color contrast itself was the most startling. Once outside, I pulled the child’s shirt back to find a flower-shaped wound, burned around the edges of the gaping hole, like a javelin was dipped in acid and stuck through from the back. I called for help and tried to staunch the bleeding. You hear of people being all noble and patient in moments like that—level-headed and calm. Well, I wasn’t. I was pretty goddamn distraught that this kid was bleeding all over the place. Sometimes I amuse myself by looking up dream meanings. Sometimes I actually do it to find meaning. Whether for amusement or answers: saving a child in one’s dreams signifies an attempt to save a part of oneself that’s being destroyed.

I wake up and drink cup after cup of black coffee. I love the high I get from coffee. I may have a problem with addiction. My work has been weighing on my mind. I wonder what the hell I am doing. The question that will remain unanswered is how the hell can I not?

When the sun has just passed its meridian in the sky, I finally get a cart that doesn’t squeak and feel the day might just be a glorious one. It starts squeaking after about 20 feet. Standing at the check stand, waiting for the cashier to finish sliding my purchases over the window with the electric eye, I think the reason we feel so good when we consume is that it fulfills a biological instinct—maybe it’s just all the advertising though. Later, my psychic aunt seeks me out for insightful inspirations. A progeny to her oracle? Or perhaps just fucked up psychologist… Need I point out the irony?

I see the smoke in the sky and instead of wondering what building has burned, I think it must be from the fire that used to be my life. Never mind. This is not some depressing diary entry that will, after I drink/smoke/caffeinate myself to death, live in infamy along with my work that was previously unrecognized while living. No. I got all that angst out as teenager. It’s just a perspective shift. There’s a lick of flame still burning inside.

“Benjy Compson”

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