Life is a Memory in an Old Man’s Dream & other Telepathically Paranoid Musings.

I Have Created Myself

How very often do I find myself writing autobiographical things which end up becoming just as elusive as a stranger’s perfectly forgotten dreams. I begin my sentences with such great certainties — “I did this” or “this event had such and such an effect on me” — when all of a sudden I get that unsettling feeling as if I were being gently levitated from my seat, as if I were not really here at all. I become estranged and apart from my own subject, which is myself.

The dawning of the realization that you are an illusion of your own making comes first as an uneasy feeling in the tender-to-the-touch Almighty Ego. Inevitably, the knowledge becomes confirmed on the intellectual level and thus becomes wisdom. I have created myself out of the fabric of my own imagination!


The Differentiation of Illusions

Who is to say the artificial and painted theater stage background is more or less of an illusion than our artificial cultural backgrounds — our cities, homes, jet-ways, parking lots, etc. What makes the one artificial and the other not so? Both the stage and the city, the intended and non-intended illusions, come to the same material result. Both are products of human imagination. Every city upon planet Earth which makes up the whole of civilization first began as a seed in the minds of our strange and creative species. Perhaps even we ourselves are the complete constructs of our imaginations — an illusory product of purely neuro-biologic and chemical processes!


The Usually Quite Unusual 

If there’s one thing I’ve observed in this life, speaking from a subjectively objective point of view, it is that everything is usually quite unusual. Or at least, this the impression that one is given from day to day living. Absurdity is merely normality put on full, roasting and shameless display. The average freaks on the street are our fellow men. Coincidences and synchronicity happen all the time. The extraordinary is cousin to the mundane. The uncommon….all too common! Any seeing, feeling person with their eyes and minds open will know this in the back of their consciousness, or if they’re anything like me, at the forefront of their bleeding, pulsating and dreaming hearts.


My Paranoid Telepathy

I have this paranoid fear of people reading my thoughts and attacking me violently over the nature of their contents. This fear springs up when I am thinking something particularly nasty about a given human being. For example: I am on the day job. I’m pushing a row of shopping carts uphill toward the cart garage and there is a woman in the way. I push and heave the carts and finally divert them onto a separate path so that the customer and I are not running into each other. I am making this effort purely out of courtesy, and not that the situation required an apology, I apologized to the passing lady anyway. She merely scowled at me and continued on her way. That’s when I think to myself, “She’s just mad because she’s ugly. I mean, just look at that poor, tight-lipped cunt!”

Even now I feel the hysterical daggers of that woman’s pink-polished finger nails at the back of my neck. Thank the Gods-which-do-not-exist that telepathy is seemingly a non-existent human ability. For if telepathy were to exist, I would have been dropped in the river with cement shoes a long time ago.

The only form of telepathy I wholeheartedly believe in is the one where I write words and you are reading them in your mind. This doesn’t make me paranoid though. Just audacious. If you don’t like my word-thoughts, well, fuck you Jack!, ’cause they’re all mine!


Life is a Memory in an Old Man’s Dream

Life is inevitably but a memory. Living is only a semi-material experience, like sand falling through spread fingers, or phantom hands. In the tail-end of living, all we have are memories of having lived. Perhaps it was all some strange and great, meaningless dream? No. Couldn’t have been a dream. I was there. I lived it!….but am I here now? Am I living it…whatever it is? In five minutes past will I say I was merely dreaming this? The hourglass is emptying of its sand, from top to bottom. I recline on the couch and watch as the sand falls and I begin to fall too. I am falling like autumn leaves onto a cold, frosty ground…I am falling, falling into the nothing.

I am just a dreaming man going back to that eternal sleep, that thing I was before I was born…

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