Sentimental Journey

I was having a private party in my head and no one else was invited. Partying like mad, partying like crazy. Having a great, great time. The best time ever. The best there is, the best there is. The best time anyone can ever have, only not really of course. Not really. I have my dreams the same as anyone else, you know. Why wouldn’t I? I have my dreams and I’m not going to turn my back on them.

 

In my dreams there are all these small blobby grey creatures that mill ceaselessly around on the floor. They go back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and that’s just about all they do. They keep on going back and forth. That’s about the size of it. It may not sound like much to you but it’s my dream and I’m not going give up on it.

 

Anyone can dream, isn’t that what they say? Anyone can dream. I was having a Mad Hatter’s party in my head and everyone was invited. Anyone who is anyone was invited – it was going to be the event of the year. I was going to be famous, but no one would know. It was to be a secret. I was going to be secretly famous but that’s just between me and you. That’s just between you and me and the cat.

 

I’m sitting here sharing the story of my life on my own personal blog site – I’m being candid about things, I’m letting it all out. I haven’t had any views, as of yet, but I’m still hopeful. Hopeful, hopeful, always hopeful – that’s me! That’s the kind of guy I am. A hopeful guy. I don’t even know what I’m hoping for, half the time. More than half the time in fact pretty much all the time. Hoping all the time, hoping like crazy, but I couldn’t tell you what for. Hoping for something, hoping for some kind of a thing.

 

I want to tell people about the good time I’m having. I’m bursting to tell someone about the good time I’m having but the trouble is that it’s all lies. Lies pour out of my mouth in ceaseless profusion – if sheer volume were to account for anything then I’d be unstoppable! Anything would be possible, so perhaps I’m right to allow myself to be so hopeful. ‘What are you hoping for, buddy?’ they ask me, keen to find out some information. ‘I’m hopeful that something may happen’, I reply, ‘I’m hopeful that some kind of a thing will happen and if it does then I’m hopeful that that will be good.’

 

Everyone was in my dream – anybody who is anybody was in my dream. I was wildly famous, shockingly famous, insanely famous, but I still find myself wondering all the same if perhaps all this fame might not still backfire on me in some unsuspected way. No matter how good it felt, it could still all go wrong. There wasn’t a person on the planet who didn’t know absolutely everything about me and I don’t know how comfortable I feel about that.

 

I was going through the motions of having a party in my head, but it was all very wooden, it was all very stale, all very formulaic. It was a hideous rigmarole but I wasn’t allowed to interfere with it. It had to be acted out, it had to be perfect down to the last detail. There is no way out from it, you see, no way out at all. The only thing to do was to go along with it.

 

‘Act out the hideous rigmarole, act out the hideous rigmarole,’ my impetuous thoughts bark impatiently at me. ‘Act out the appalling hideous rigmarole, no matter how bad it feels’. Part of you hopes – insanely enough – that if you get good enough at acting out the hideous rigmarole then this may in itself constitute some sort of escape. It’s the only way out, even if it’s an illusion. It’s something to hope for, I tell myself, it’s something to hope for and we all need that.

 

‘Is that my life that just passed before my eyes?’ I ask sardonically, ‘or is it just another crappy simulation?’ Curiously enough, it’s always the crappy simulations that I get most emotionally attached to. I get sentimental about them, I guess you could say. I hate having to give up on those dreadful, corny old simulations. They are so bad they make me wince and yet for all that I love them. I’ll do anything to hang onto the bullshit, basically. Sad but true my friends, sad but true.

 

The TV set was playing away quietly to itself in the other room. It was muted, but not entirely so. Muted, but not entirely mute. Like a lot of us really, come to think of it. We’re pretty much all like that when it comes down to it. Beneath all the bravado, beneath the dreadful, tedious show that the ego loves to put on. That awful, brash raucous show. The TV set was running through the last one hundred years of recorded human history. It was doing this purely for its own amusement. It was a sentimental journey. When it finishes then time itself will end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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