hold me tight, whilst I drown myself in you tonight.
What is wrong with me?
Well, where do I start, self? I'd rather not do self-fucking-analysis at any time of day, let alone at seven am. Oooh, painful.
But let me get this straight. I dreamt about Nick being alive. I dreamt about him being here. And talking to me, being him...but more 20th century and with different friends. He knew a different me. He knew a happy me. How the hell can I be jealous of a manifestation of me in someone else's universe, when that universe is in a DREAM? And then...and then I did...things I should not have done, or even dreamt about.
Or, maybe my subconcious is talking to me through a bloke I didn't know, like I actually thought in the goddamn dream. So...wait. I slept with myself. That's even creepier. Maybe it's still me talking to me in a fucked up way. I spend ages torturing myself, imagining what my life could be like - like what he was saying about the other me - I spend ages concentrating on how love is just...not there, but then lose all track of it when someone says they love me. So the question remains, then... do I love myself, or am I just fucking myself over?
Apparently, I love myself. Or, I'm just a filthy whore who has given up on being loyal to his wife and really badly wants to screw his ghost friend. So, I'm an egoist, or I'm a masochist, as I know being the latter is just more torture than it's worth. I'm basically making myself feel so guilty over something I can't even have, over someone I can't love. Or, according to that, I can nearly love.
Or. Maybe. My mind (the rational part of it, represented by Nick, I s'pose) is hanging onto the dream of things being right, but doesn't want to torture me over it, doesn't want me to keep dragging it out again. It loves me enough not to let me do what I want. And the rest of me (my body/heart/soul, which ever fits the goddamn analogy) doesn't want to be tortured any more, it doesn't want the guilt, but can't let go of it until my mind forces it to.
See, I don't need a shrink. I do however, need a dry cleaners. As I'm not going to be able to look at this settee the same again, subconscious or not. Hm.
And look. A whole page or more and I've not written about how reality is a fucked up place once. but it is. It truly, truly is. And not just for me anymore. At least she can't see this. I thought...I thought. I want it to be just me, sometimes. I don't want this to happen to anyone else. It's not fucking fair. I...I walked that girl down the aisle. I...fuck. At least I wasn't on my own, or I'd be at the bottom of a crate of vodka. Instead, I have a concerned mother in law owling me every other day, to see if I'm still okay. I guess she has to nag someone. I'm not okay. But the thing is, I've never been okay. I tried to pick myself up again, and get on with things, like...perhaps, my subconscious wants me to. But things come back and they hit me back down when I think everything is working okay. So much for faith in the world. So back to being me, one way or another. Crazy old me, who may be losing it with far too realistic dreams. I'll see.
How's everyone doing out there? If anyone wants to tell me. If not, has anyone got a joke? As in an actually funny one. Because if not, how am I going to be the witty strange one at work, hmm?
Nevermind, then. I have policy to write. Oh, the delight. Can't wait.