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

I think the only thing I've ever really been complimented on is my eyes. That and how people always say I'm gonna be the first millionaire they know but, come on, I'm not sure that is a compliment, really. In fact it's not. So all I have is the eyes, and even then I personally don't quite see it. Kind of. A little. They're nothing classic. No baby blues here. No Sinatra that's for sure.

They're just sort of greenish hazel that get grey and dusty when the weather turns bad and my mood turns worse. Foul is the term, really. So maybe it's the expression in them that makes people notice. Who knows.

Sometimes, though, I dream about drinking them away. I dream about drinking so much that they become dull and glassed over. I imagine what a pack-a-day habit could do to them, make them all smokey and tired looking with crows-feet around the edges. Think about what a life on the ocean might accomplish - squinty bloodshot beady little things, they'd be. Sometimes, I'll be honest, sometimes it sounds exciting. Sometimes it feels like that is just what I need - an eye fix. A re-adjustment for my personality. A calibration, as it were.

Beady little bloodshotters would suit me just fine. Grey dull ones like a dog with a wonky eye. I could go about life without the looks, without the piercing looks. People see dull eyes and they keep on going. You don't pause at stuff like that just like you keep your head down when you walk past a bum on the street. Dull eyes have nothing to offer.

I dunno, cynical of me to say that sort of thing? Maybe. Or just tired of some of the things that keep me wanting. Tired of the stuff that makes me think I need more. Tired of the stuff that keeps me from getting it. You know, that future stuff all over again. Said it before and I'll say it again, I've seen the future and it looks like a lotta the same.

Lotta philosophical talk about nothing, I'd imagine. A big spaghetti dinner and a few beers will do that to a guy, just settle him down in a chair in front of the comfortable glowing rays of a warm CRT screen and type, for no good reason. Just to get it, maybe. Just to spill it onto the page, the screen, the keyboard, whatever you want to say.

None of it good or bad really, just there, on the page, staring back at him letting him know that yeah, maybe he did something. Maybe, today, despite all the useless pointless drivel, the busywork, the hustle and bustle of getting things done that matter in a months time, maybe there was something that got put down for future reference.. something with the slightest worth to it. Enough to remember it's there and maybe come back some day, re-read it. Gain some insight. About who he was back then, back now, back in the warm confines of that big ball of string. History. In the making.

Right.

Now.