Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams
The last two nights I have been sleeping, which is great because I have been having bouts of insomnia for a while now. I had worn myself out with all the activities that I get myself involved in, but it wasn’t enough to quell whatever was going that kept me up. The only downside to being able to sleep has been the last two dreams I’ve had. They both concerned women (read objects of desire) I know and either rejection or rapturous romance. There is something odd about dreaming that a girl you barely know, but you’ve had something with makes you go with her to San Francisco so that she can marry some other dude that you aren’t too stoked on anyway. What sparks this line of slumbering fantasy in real life? Fear and bewilderment are quite possibly the largest contributors. Hugs have been shared since things went platonic and well, now they seem stronger. Almost as though they have been fortified with traces of that brief yet confusing period prior. The wedding in the dream was huge and I don’t know if I felt worse asleep or when I woke up. There is nothing-quite like that heavy weight in/on your chest when you wake up depressed. I thought that I wasn’t going to be feeling that anytime soon, but like an old friend it has been with me the last two mornings.
The other dream felt great as it was happening. I had a lackluster evening prior to it, going to a costume party. I dressed Rufo as what I termed to be a “German Pornographer.” I’m sure the pictures will be up later today. Anyhow, I was Batman but I found myself being someone else entirely. Last night was like being back where I was when I was acting like a puppy with Cecille. I used to go to parties just for the specific purpose of seeing her and that didn’t go so well if memory serves me right. There is always that moment where you realize that there was a mistake made by having any sort of expectations. You feel like an old fool when that happens. French cock-shaped barricades aside, it was a whatever night that dredged up elder feelings of inadequacy.
This Fall, I’ve been trying to rebuild myself to be who I think I am but it feels like there are some things that I just can’t fight. I will always be a moping forlorn dude quite possibly. When I’m high, I have a hard time keeping a poker face even under a cape and cowl. I know you saw the hurt in my Semitic hand gesticulations and my demeanor before I left.
As Rufo drove away with me riding shotgun, the black make-up around my eyes commingled with the sweat that the mask was helping to create and I could feel it seeping into then burning my eyes. “What a waste of time..” I thought as Rufo tried to cheer me up some with a mix CD he had made. A barely noticeable lump in my throat, I waved him off as I went into the house. I was just ready to peel off the costume with no Alfred to give me a night cap and some words of wisdom. I fell asleep after I had washed my face. I never just touch my head down to a pillow and fall right away. It was strange, but the dream that followed was so good. It was the kind where you wake up hoping and believing it to be real, but alas it wasn’t.
Fuck it, I don’t need it.
The people in the program have labeled me “the sex poet.” I wrote a piece the other day trying to convey that yes, I am that but I am more than that. A friend, Matt Dupree, said upon hearing a raunchier one that he would hate to be a girl I dated just because she would have to know that anything we did would “end up in a poem.” Hey, Hank had his women then why can’t I have mine?