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

Sweet thing, they said about going back. not knowing about the twist of a spring tied up inside. bomb waiting to go off like a jerry springer guest. sweet thing, they said about heading back and they didn't know what that really meant, the things he'd miss, the things he'd forget. Sweet thing, indeed, like a bad Platters' song. Smoke gets in your eyes, or Only you. Bitter-sweet more like it, they don't see the regret, the want, the desire, the need to live it all both lives, all thrice, all quadruple the fun. Five times a minute I think to myself, five times, that if I wanted it then I could have it. I just don't want it bad enough. I just don't, I tell myself, want it enough. I must not. No way I could want it as bad as I think I do if I did then I'd do it, wouldn't be talking here about it would be busy working on it right this instant. Now. now. nope, still here. Want, need, desire, my ass..

My ass, and then I remember, it hits me, like a ton of brick oven pizzas in the face, some sort of farcical prank that I wasn't privy to until the last second - the butt of the joke, that's me. Someone's punchline; straight to the bank to cash that check they go and I don't even see who it was, digging pie from my eye sockets as I am. Sweet thing indeed, heading off into winter wonder where the fuck I am land, where the hell am I going with these "life decisions", decisions? That would suggest some sort of understanding of the problem, some sort of choice along the way like I'm actually picking the flowers I want, not just mowing over the whole lot of 'em. No, there are no roses here unless they got sucked under the john deere like the rest of the weeds, the dandelions, the four-leaf clovers I can't see from where I am sitting up on top of that tractor. Sweet thing, they said, about going back.