and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

Somedays it's really really hard to get out of bed.

Sometimes it's easier just to go home.

Some years just feel like they drag on and on.

The problem with hope, with faith, with desire.. it's patience's worst enemy. And sometimes these things are just a pain in the ass.

Which is why it's hard to get out of bed sometimes and why, year after year, as people get older and the world around just stays the same age, it's easy to start to care less and less.

At first there is caring. Then, with each day and each week and each year there is a little less trying, a little less listening and not quite as well, no more effort. More weezing at the end of a run and more laying in bed - just a little longer. Now, when things are at their worst - that is, nothing is wrong at all but nothing is right either - bed seems like a pretty comfortable sanctuary.

Sure, it's the curse that is the cure. It's the one place where solitude and thought come together to make for hours and hours of woe-is-me commentary inside the brain. It's mentally painful just to think about but it's the human condition - tired and panting, waiting, always self-inflicting narcissssssistic and booooring.

No one wants to hear it. So climb in bed and curl up a little too hot a little too cold but always easy to solve - throw the blankets off. Wrap up in the blanket. All the other problems seem so gigantic but these little ones - this hot this cold - they are immediate and simple. Like mini-marathons it's a happy time to be warmer or cooler and have accomplished something, quenched a desire. Those other issues seem so far away.

Like a hot tub. Hot and warm and relaxing but oddly tiring, sapping the energy out from under you like a magician, like a carni, like pulling the tablecloth out from under the china before you even notice a thing and you're tired.. very tired. That's just the thing about bed. It's self-perpetuating. Sleep too much and become more tired. It's the depressive's dream. Self loathing and then loathing the self-loathing only to love it, to embrace it, like a victum embraces their kidnapper. Love. Self love. Self hatred. Hating the love and loving to hate. The mixing of the two like coffee and cream, the hatred as the black coffee, dark and warm sometimes hot - burning to the touch - but the cream, oh the cream - cool and silky and pure. white. clean. - mixing, always more coffee than cream. Always more hatred to make the love seem that more special - to embrace the love the little tiny nugget of self-love inside and hold on hold on hold on for dear life. To become one's own worst enemy. To feel defeated. To fall asleep.

Sometimes sleep brings dreams. Bad dreams - dreams of death or flying and falling, of holding on, scrambling climbing back up over the precipice, only to have to face the dragon the demon the decon the mother father sister brother. Sometimes. But it's special different not real - easy to wake up and smell the coffee and let it all go go go go away. And then it's back in the bed, the monster demon gone away and nothing left but self-loathing and self-loving and back to normal back to feeling like crap all over again - back to the comfort of feeling like crap. Back to feeling like crap because it's what is known, is familiar and comfortable and that's why we don't take the drugs it takes away the pain and what's the fun in life if there is no pain? How good is the pleasure the guilty pleasure of enjoyment without the sacrifice the hurt the guilt the self-inflicted pain? No good no good at all because it's hollow empty shallow - means nothing. Doesn't make sense. Like cheese without the wine. How can you enjoy the cheese without the whine? The whine is completely necessary - is a part of the cheese - is part of being part of existing. Part of hating and loathing and beating one's self up and loving and kissing and making out with one's self and not even bothering to wear a condom with one's self. Self-deprecating and self-inflicting and self self self self.

Like alcohol down a drain. Spiraling downward into itself, all of it's toxic and clear but poisonous self.

Like glue in a bottle. Sticking to the insides. Glomming onto anything and not letting go not letting go literally having to be squeeeeezed out, protesting every movement.

Like the simple form of a water droplet. A beautiful one-time water droplet sitting atop a rock, a leaf, a blade of grass. A droplet curved in on itself - it's chemical powers of attraction pulling tugging tucking into itself. It's self love. It's self. self.