The soundtrack starts… The scene begins.
There are days when I get up, go through the motions, and forget about anything outside of my little island. I take my medicine and begin to do my thing and ignore the world. I do things for other people that I’ve promised to do, and I do the tasks that are required of me. Beyond that, I sometimes wonder why I attend the real world. I miss being a shut in.
The sandy haired son of Hollywood lost his faith in all that’s good. Closed the curtain, unplugged the clock. Hung his clothes on the shower rod. But he never got undressed, and no he never made a mess.
I miss shoving my nose so deep in a book that I forget what reality is. If reality is relative, what does that say about my immersion in literary fantasy worlds? Does that mean that they can be my real world? What about the stories I tell myself to sleep. Oh, you didn’t know about that? I don’t sleep much. That’s not new information. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned my silly technique to actually be able to get to sleep. I tell myself stories. Honest. I think up and tell myself bedtime stories at night to fall asleep. My bedtime stories are insanely impossible, and yet my brain clings to them as though they are real.
On the corner, by his street, he sits in his lawn chair in the heat. Sightseers see what they want, they’re selling star maps to the sun.
The more stress I’m under, the more tired I become. The more I have to deal with stupid shit, the more tired I become. I guess it’s a damned and damneder situation. I know that If I’m more tired, I’ll actually, eventually, get to sleep. Hard. But if I’m stressed that much, it makes me irritable and dangerous. Don’t worry chicken nuggets. I’m not dangerous to others. I’m not even really dangerous to myself. I’m just dangerous in that I make very poor decisions.
It’s funny how life turns out.
My poor decisions rarely affect anyone other than me. I suppose that’s good enough.