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

There is so much I don't like out there and so many people that piss me off that it can really get in the way sometimes. Of what I like, that is. Which, as a misanthrope, is limited to a few fuzzy bears, a frog, and other nonsensical apparitions. You know, "ghosts".. things that aren't real. Things that don't seem real, anyway, because they're all dancing in reverse on the inside of my dark heavy curtains; low tv-light as the energy of their souls.

Meanwhile, the shit outside - and I'm not talking about the inches and feet of piled up snow, the trash strewn about town, or the old junkers spewing filth into our winter wonderland here - I'm talking about the shit outside that is every whining, complaining, miserable jerk who thinks they're owed something or that they can walk up and knock on opportunity's door. It works the other way around, last time I checked.

Opportunity came knocking on my door recently and that's just the trouble. Whereas the saying goes "one door closes, another one opens" I have too many that are wide and inviting and, what with all the jerks who think they're owed something filling my head with grouse and grumble, it is hard to think straight through one of these doors. I'm no Gumby and that means I stretch only so thin, but my mind (in its own insufferable patois, puttied into stringy taffy bits) can see itself wrapped around so many door jams it hurts my body to bear the translation into such finite dimensions as : outside my door.

So I'm the jerk, really. A mind in meld is a mind in mania and, just like the jerk with too many dreams, I'm marred by choices, life, life, life, or life. It isn't any real wonder that, in finally stepping through a door, it is hard to see on both the inside and the outside. Especially having spent so long in drafting a monologue to myself, to be having-been delivered pre-hence, once edited having already been read, spoken, booed, and applauded. All while balancing on the precipice, swaying back and forth and in and out, feeling the cool breeze of the open yard, the warm heat of the fireplace, the sun lite panorama, the soft glow of finite space.

So is it misanthropic to self-loathe those traits which best define you as one of a brethren? If it is, does it solve anything, do the words make any sense at the end of the day, like a solid and final solution or answer? Probably not, no. Sigh, it doesn't, and so back to the bears, the green fuzzy frogs and those silly squares. Of ghosts and ghouls dancing in made up light. Say what you will but tv.. tv.. tv..

What was I saying?