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

bear with me, Jaime says, I'm having trouble writing today.

Says it like it is so I'll do it to:

I am having trouble writing today. I'm having trouble with random thoughts and unfinished sentences and misaligned ideas. I'm having problems with my wrist and my knee and my head. I'm knocking things down but I'm not picking them up and it's that anxious feeling that at sometime, someday, I'm gonna have to clean it all up.

Someone always has to clean it up.

It's okay though because a good cleaning is theraputic. Taking a solid 3 hours to go through stuff, clean out the closet, sweep the floors, and do the dishes.. it's like a visit to the group session - only it doesn't cost as much.

Alright, I know nothing about group sessions. I know nothing about therapy and overcoming addictions and depressions and I know the last thing about personal loss. I feel terrible.

I'm alive in this world with not the slightest complaint, really - despite what this place might suggest - I'm really quite content with my lotto number in life. Death, dismemberment, personal anguish? Grandfather in his late 60's - I was too young to really know. I cried but I didn't know why. The feelings were there but I wasn't familiar with them. Grandmother, recently, in her late 80's and having lived a long life, survived by 8 children and 20 or so grandchildren. These are normal and insignificant trials. Not insignificant in that they aren't sad, but insignificant as in they are normal and, for the most part, expected.

I feel terrible for being blessed with my lack of sadness - a self-imposed punishment for being me, being blessed, being whole and uncut, still standing, still me. And so I write such depressing things to you, here, and that is why I wrote what I wrote about the darkness of the human condition. I was trying to say that we are, as a society, a perpetuation machine - perpetuating the suffering the loss the hate the fear. I was trying to ask why books and movies and tv and every other form of "entertainment" perpetuate this darkness. I don't know. No answers.

It's a sick obsession we have with Mother Nature. It's Oedipal. It's just the way we are, I suppose. Born from this earth we shall die and return to the earth. Both figuratively and literally. If it wasn't so personal it would almost be poetic.

But instead it hurts. A soreness, an ache, a throbbing pain. A sharp stab a mild twitch. It hurts. This is human. It is human to hurt. It is human, this pain we feel for eachother for ourselves and it's what makes us what we are. Not snail or meerkat or bug or tree. Not sand or stone or rock or sea. Not tiger or sloth or chimpanzee.

Just human.

Always human.

So to cope, we do stuff like this:

www.fortyhands.com