I've been haunted by a dream I had a couple of nights ago: the gist of it being that I was only waiting to die. The waiting is constant and the only aspect of being alive. Whatever else doesn't matter one whit. Only the fact of the time served. This prison of living. This life of waiting to end.
What the hell am I to make of this?
It totally blasted me into a frustrated and angry mood. What am I doing if this doesn't matter?
Does it-- really? Am I kidding?
Why the fuck would I work like a dog? Why would I waste my time in anything that isn't the most selfish and self-serving of seeking?
Why aren't I getting laid?
So I walked around today with this in my mind.
Gypsy music has helped ground me. Sexy rhythm. Singing in Hungarian. It all sounds like romance and longing. But happy, which I need right now. Evocative smile.
It's Saturday night and I just watched Love in the Time of Cholera.
Another Gabriel Garcia Marquez masterpiece. I quickly went to my bookshelf and read the first sentence from One Hundred Years of Solitude: "Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendi'a was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice."
What would it be that I would discover if I dropped the pretense of living and faced my life without fear?
Listening to Freakwater now. Twisted country twang. Shotgun fierce harmony.
"Like a piano playing faintly on the second floor
in a back room. The music seems familiar, but is not."
The Container For The Thing Contained/Jack Gilbert
There are no answers for this unsettled mood. The sky too cloudy to see the stars.
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