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

After a long summer in the city in which my motorcycle was mostly neglected, forlornly sitting in a parking garage all by its lonesome, it came to me that I was a rich person sitting up high upon a pedestal. Though not literally installed within the upper echelon, sitting on the top floor of a skyscraper, I was somehow blessed with that materialism that is hard to reach without the silky smoothness of gregarious greenbacks. This was my vacation home, a 900 cubic centimeter engine carved out by the hands of Italian blue collars, and for the entire season I walked by it, like so many privelaged, ignoring the possibilities of simple enjoyment, ignoring the relaxation that comes with free time, time off, vacation time, time to contemplate the true meaning and importance of everything around me. I strolled past, to work and other endeavours; to drink and be merry but in that blue collar way, escaping out from under the oppression of work late in the evening, throwing back one after another in hopeless abandon, ignoring completely the implications of tomorrow, the headache of early-morning-arousal, off-to-work-by-eight, bitter coffee and inside me nothing but feeble darkness, gray in its half-hearted attempt.

Somewhere inside every rich man is a twisted corridor and it is there that he is every day confused, turned around, and mislead upon his way. Every day when soft thoughts flutter down, percolating through the mid-brain madness, they are re-routed and dispersed, separated out and quarantined, left to their own devices like solitary prisoners slowly going mad in their little boxes.

It is there at that vacation home in peace and quiet where simple pleasures take hold and soothe the most frayed of nerves, mend the wild churning sea of thought, and slow the pace of life to a more reasonable speed. It is there, in that space that truth is found, in that place, where rarely we go. The rich get richer. The poor get poorer. Nobody has time for the vacation of home, for the hearth, for sitting around on the porch. I'm guilty, myself, of ignoring the truth, carrying the torch of a horrible noose. I'm no gallows gang or rioting mob, just a working sod with a suicide throb. Just this weekend I rolled the bike into the shed. Wrapped it up and called the season dead. Tomorrow I get up and go back to work. Just another asshole, a pitiful jerk.

Perhaps next year, when the sun comes out again, there will be time to change and re-ascertain what is really important. I can't say one way or another.