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

fter two hours of sleep I poured myself into a pair of suit pants this morning, turning each thigh into a tight little sausage wrapped in a polyester/wool blend. In grade school I was one of the smallest kids in the class, the short and almost alien-like skinny kid who clearly hadn't grown into his own skin. A decade and a half later I'm a lot like everyone else, blending deftly into the crowd and keeping a low profile. Normal, and unassuming. Writing myself out of definitions like noteworthy and unique. Same problems, just like everyone else. It's comforting, really.

Except half the time I'm still convinced they're all my own problems. I mean, sure, everybody has problems, but I sometimes can't shake the feeling that these - my own problems - are wholly strange and a cancerous growth all their own, previously undiscovered. They don't share traits with others, they present an entirely new physiology. I'm wrong, right? Everyone's more the same then they are different and I'm projecting my own desires of an individualist's world. We're lying in bed awake sometimes, wondering about which waterslide we're going to go down tomorrow: the long meandering slow one that plops you out at the end like a reluctant shit, or the slick and fast speed demon that slings you into the pool as if you've taken a BMX off a ramp into an inground in your neighbour's back yard.

Bottom line? We're all either flying past everybody, arms flailing wildly in the air, or we're watching the plastic walls of the world slip by as we keep our arms staidly by our sides, our heads bent every-so-slightly forward, navel gazing in a bland attempt to look past it all.

You have to choose one or the other and here I'm stuck in the middle like Goldilocks; it's either too fast or it's too slow. Nothing is just right, that's why they call it a "fairytale", I guess.