I’m just a dreamer, busy dreaming my life away – isn’t that what they say? Isn’t that how it goes? Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming – that’s the jolly old ticket, isn’t it? Dreaming that you’re dreaming that you’re dreaming that you’re dreaming…
Where will it all end, I wonder? Where will it end and where did it begin, and what’s the bloody point in it anyway? Assiduously adapting to the unreal world of your own bullshit, that’s what it’s all about. That’s the name of the game, wouldn’t you say? Trying to fit in as best you can with all that dreadful ludicrous bullshit that for some reason you chose to believe in over the years. That’s the jolly old ticket, isn’t it?
‘Sure, it’ll do just fine…’ Isn’t that what we tell ourselves? Sure, what’s wrong with that? Didn’t bullshit like this work for our fathers and forefathers? Didn’t it work for all the folk who came before us, all of our venerable ancestors from the dim and distant past? Didn’t that good old bullshit stand the test of time? And where would we be now without it, I’d like to know? Where would we be without it.
I’m just a dreamer, me. Trapped in a foetid festering cocoon of my own deluded imaginings. Trapped in my own private universe. ‘Get out, you bastards’, I roar belligerently, ‘get out of here – can’t you see this is private property?’ My rage is without bounds, of course. My rage is always without bounds. People have no respect these days, you see – they’d walk all over you if you let them. They’d come and live in your ear if you gave them half a chance. Then walk right through you for a shortcut…
We’re actually more than happy to be as absurdly small-minded and ridiculously stupid as we are – it suits us down to the ground, in fact. If that’s the price we have to pay for not knowing what’s going on then we will pay it every time. It’s almost as if we’re proud of ourselves for resorting to this particular strategy. We are proud of ourselves – we are so smug it would make you sick. If this is the way we have to be in order to remain oblivious to the actual reality of things then we will be that way and – what’s more – we’ll be proud of it!
I’m reading a story to myself out of my own personal book of horror stories. I’m sitting here all on my own in my own little private world and I’m reading it out loud to myself. At times it gets out frightening that I don’t dare to turn the page. I don’t dare to turn the page for fear of revealing what’s going to happen to me next. I don’t want to know of course, but at the same time I always end up sneaking a look eventually. The suspense gets too much for me. ‘What’s it going to be?’ I ask myself, ‘what’s going to happen next?’ Whatever it is, the one thing I know for sure is that it isn’t going to be anything good. I can be certain of this fact if nothing else.
I have lived out the whole of my life enacting some kind of grotesque ego fantasy – I can see that now. I can see it all too clearly now. I never saw it at the time of course. I didn’t see it at the time because I actually thought everything was fine! Or at least if not ‘fine’ – which might be pushing it a bit – then kind of normal and not grotesque. Or at least, not too grotesque. Just a bit grotesque, maybe. Just a tad grotesque. I just got on with it, as you do. At times I even felt good about myself, although that may be putting it a shade too strongly. Now of course I realise that I missed the point of life entirely, and I don’t mind telling you that this hurts. It’s not a nice thing to learn…
