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

Guilty admission? I saw an old photo and I thought, "that's not what I remember at all." This odd technology of snapshot imagery, old in and of itself but brand new in the big scheme, it brings about a whole new being, a state of mind not possible before. I'd never considered these things till now. For this armchair psychologist, it explained everything.. as if I had the right to make up people's back-stories just because I saw a picture or two, a snapshot of a time when I wasn't even an inkling in their eye. OF COURSE it makes sense. OF COURSE I should have known.

I shouldn't have known. I don't even know.

Truthfully, I know enough to know I'm not THAT much of an asshole.. but I'm still an asshole. The walls were crumbling down around me then and I saw it but ignored it. Does that make me implicitly responsible for the bringing down of the house?

I (tried to) explain this and they just didn't get it. They kept harping about how I
shouldn't be so judgemental. They were trying to help me out of a hole but meanwhile I was really stuck in a tree. Fah. I never was a great climber.

Truth be told the last I knew it she was in New Hampshire or Vermont and she was pushing mochas across the counter to 30-something yuppies with their I was there once attitude that somehow made them feel as though it was all justified - their recycled wealth. In my head she is in a relationship with some idiot - the first one to come along and hit on her when first she started working there and she cries when he isn't around. He's a miserable person (no, he doesn't beat her or anything but he's a fucking go-nowhere moron) and it makes her feel miserable too, and she doesn't cry because of any of that - she cries because it feels so normal and comfortable to be miserable.

Sometimes it feels like it would be nice to cry about such simple things as recycled wealth and miserable feelings but it's too complicated on this end. Too many photos, each with it's own (made up) back story that doesn't validate or justify a single goddamned thing but confuses it nevertheless. Justifies lousy communication - "What, you don't understand?? Look at the goddamned pictures! You think I got this way by accident? Look at the goddamned pictures!" - (she shoved them in my lap like they were an unwanted baby, something to be held and cradled but quickly shuffled along to the next sucker). As if a picture, worth all of it's one thousand words, could ever really formulate it's own sentence, speak a coherent thought, regurgitate any valid reasoning about it's existence.

Words are as good as puzzle pieces mixed up on the kitchen table unless they are put together to make a picture. It takes time, sometimes, and effort, to sit down and put those pieces together - to form a real cohesive and worthwhile memory. Sometimes, the energy just isn't there and you get gobble-de-gook like this. A big pile of letters, words, paragraphs just piled up like wood from a torn down building; No real sense, just a pile.

And I think maybe it would be nice just to feel a bit miserable. Maybe it would be nice to be down in a hole. Maybe it would be nice to climb down from the trees for once and walk around and be okay - feel comfortable - within one's own skin, with one's abilities and wants and needs and feelings. Maybe it would be nice to be miserable for awhile, unhappy with one's recycled wealth. Maybe, just maybe, it would be nice to cry about it for awhile.