AWAKENING

The people I’ve tried to make love with, haunt my virtual reality dreams that are as fragile as a crashed hard drive or pulled plug. My dreams haunt my dreams. Everything I have ever seen or imagined or done, invisibly haunt my super-reality dreams.

I am not a bad man, yet I am a troubled man, troubled by what could have been, what was, what should have been, what can never be. If my dreams trouble someone as guiltless and meaningless as me, what must the dreams of Adolf, Idi, Mao, George W, and Pius XII have been? Not to mention good men like Bill, Obama, and Indira. What was in the dreams of Chopin, A.S. Neill, and Groucho as they lay dying?

How can it be that 5000 years of human majesty and shame can absolutely vanish in a millisecond explosion, along with all the cute bunnies, redwoods, hummingbirds, crocodiles, roses, manatees, and mosquitoes we’ve killed.

My list of tragedies are endless and soothing, yet fill only a page of the Great Unabridged Dictionary of things known, experienced, not known, imagined, unimagined, and distorted.

I have killed and tortured unconsciously in order to survive emotionally and physically, yet I am nothing in the known history of life, much less the unknown vastness. Memory is as instant as waking up, or going to sleep, or sleepwalking. We all have unlimited potential for loving and destroying, and so few of us ever touch it.

My computer seat has become my magic carpet, which no longer flies, but just lays there, waiting to be walked on until threadbare rotting dust. Self-pity, regret, hopelessness, sit firmly and comfortably on me, like a heavy naked warm body waiting to painfully fuck, and pleasurably fill.