I stared at the busy crossing. There was a red light, and the line of cars was whining to get going. The afternoon sun was beating down on the city and the traffic policeman who stood on the stand was visibly tired and in a bad mood. I stood on the pavement with her and I wondered…
Can you believe this is a dream?
Can you tell me what might have been the reason behind setting up such a colossal and complex structure? To craft dew drops on silent leaves, to craft the grey of low clouds, to craft faces, her face, those eyes…
‘I haven’t slept for seven days. My eyes are setting in deeper in their sockets everyday.’ She said.
Whose sleep is this? Whose dream? Whose whim is logic and reason? Whose imagination is this reality? Whose handiwork is this universe? Whose mind are we living in? Where do we find us when we wake?
It must have been bloody hard work, incorporating thoughts and emotions in this dream. Poor fellow, only He knows how much He must have had to sweat over envy and joy and sorrow, and… and love. Wonder how long that took. Wonder how hard He worked behind making it seem important and meaningful. Because He’s done a mighty fine job, I can see. Her face, her eyes…
Maybe my mind is a universe too, with its own little members and processes and structure. But I’m not as good as Him. Mine’s a small world.
Why do I feel so lonely at times that I feel like crying?
Why am I afraid of myself?
Why don’t I listen to me?
Why can’t I know myself?
Why do I have so many thoughts in my head? Why doesn’t someone come and take them all away and whisper softly to me that my troubles are all over?
Why does it all appear so petty to me? Marks, tests, percentage, being a Good Boy…
Why can’t I be who I am? Do I even know how to?
Why am I so old? Why do I feel like I’m as old as Him? Goddammit, I’m only 17!
Why is yesterday so disconnected from now in my mind? Why does my life break up into little fragments in my mind? Like it’s not a single journey, but I’ve started on a new one today and let’s forget about the last one. Last one? When was that?
Do I like to be sad or not?
They say to keep away from addictions. An addiction will have you clinging to it, and you can’t imagine living without it. Isn’t life the biggest addiction ever?
What joy does everyone get from being so narrow in their beliefs, from having only a countable finity of things to believe in and not imagine and believe in ‘impossibilities’? What is impossible in a dream when the Dreamer is one who can weave things like love into it?
What if one day I pinch myself awake and realize all this I believed in was never real?
What is music, and art, and a bad smell, and a bad taste, and pain? What is the rationality of their qualification as the things they are?
Can friendship be an illusion? Doesn’t God have friends?
I’m so, so alone in this huge sea of thought.
Before I end, one firm little footing to stand on, one undeniable, unalterable little thing to believe in: Ich liebe Alis.