self indulgent, woe is me prose.

dreams are such amazingly complicated facets of our being, whether waking or those caught by indian dream catchers. such depth of who we are as beings (or souls being hosted by flesh and blood) can be revealed: our longings and desires, our subconcious fears, past and future lives (am I being literal). it's trite to describe hapiness and sucess as the byproduct of a tenacious grasp on that which we've visualized (subconciously?) in our minds for as long as we can remember. And yet I'm coming to realize the inherently obvious truth to believing and pursuing that very sentiment.

My path and my dreams coincide somewhere deep within the sea of my subconcious, only to surface briefly during the minutes and hours in which my outlook on life positive. Humans and animals alike have an inherent need and desire to seek comfort, immersing themselves in a reality that's either the result of complacent acceptance or the incessant pursuit of exhiliiration and joy. Depression, fear, and anxiety have been so prevalant in my short life that such states of being seem correct and normal. Overreacting to simple situations, hiding from others for fear of not living up to their expectations, longing for material objects or contrived situations to bolster what little excitement for life was present at any given time: there were myriad fcuked up ways that I viewed life. I was a victim of advertising and transferrence, (or maybe a mother who dropped me on my head one too many times). I viewed the happy faces with which I was bombarded on an hourly basis as being the result of a lifestyle that I needed to chase. I wasn't stupid, I was merely lonely and lost and confused, impressionable and young and ignorant. Magazines and sitcoms and movies and billboards all sold me the idea that there was a path towards delight in everyday life: white teeth, sculpted bodies, fast cars, beer, money, an air of affluence and a laissez faire attitude. Surely if I had all of the above the equation would balance and I would no longer long for days in which I was "living the life" and chasing my dreams: an architectural digest worthy home by the water saturated with perfect lighting, a model girlfriend in many senses of the word, an enlightened mind, a taught physique and a Lamborghini in the garage. These testaments to America's endless opportunities were attainable. Success beyond my wildest imagination was possible through devoting myself to school, studying all hours of the night, getting good grades and working hard for the money. The answers to most of life's questions lay in a diploma, I so foolishly thought. And yet many days have passed since that goal became a reality and I feel empty. I'm travelling down a path that doesn't seem as if it will ever diverge, leading from a sparse forest of despair and tedium to a lush tropical sanctuary of inspiration and hope and meaning. As I prepare for sleep, I pop another dose of medicine to stabilize my anxiety and my moods so that tomorrow I can live as a normal human being, so that I won't overeact to the ceaseless phone calls from money hungry clients all wanting and needing their answers now. I probably won't, but I long hang up the phone and walk away gracefully, not quite sure of where I'm going, but aware of where I've been. Aware of the brevity of life and the power of dreams and happenstance and an intense longing to change, to grow and become the man I might not have ever had the chance to know. Sadly, subdued sleeping dreams are a side effect of SSRI's. Hopefully science can reach a point where this is no longer true. A time where I can close my eyes and envision a future bathed in hues of golds and reds and calm serene blues. I'll inhale deeply and awake bathed in a rush of natural bliss, believing and sealing my actions and words with sincerity and a kiss, aware and ready to pursue life.