Dreaming

Dreaming

I'm dreaming that thou art dreaming of me
And see that all I've been doing is to dream of thee
Ever since we first met
Outside the library
And sharing a cigarette
While rain kept falling,
Winds howling
And leaves fluttering and floundering
And I myself was struggling from falling
In love
With your laughing,
With your teeth sparkling
In the fading light of the evening.

Wissai
August 22, 2010

So, I wrote this minor masterpiece and shared it with a few friends. One wrote back, saying that I was insensitive and full of myself because I kept talking about myself. What a croak of shit! It seemed to me the author of that "comment" failed to see the beauty of the sentiments expressed. The poem was not about me at all. It had nothing to do with me. It was purely an exercise in fantasy and imagination triggered by insufficient sleep and the inappropriate, forced, awkward use of the terms "cogitation" and " meditation" employed in a manual of mental masturbation. I merely wanted to say, hey, if you guys really wanted to talk about dreaming, just go ahead and say it, why beat around the bush, why whistle in the dark, why piss behind the tree? If you really wanted to see what dreaming was all about, take a look at this. Pearls before swine. When a monkey looks into a mirror, don't expect a Brad Pitt looks backs. All the monkey sees is its own reflection, and bananas, maybe. But I must confess his "comment" bothered me because I wondered how people could misread what was obviously a showing off of my ability to weave words together when I am in a right mood and my brain in a weird state. I must further confess I read with care what and how people express themselves. I look for evidence of authencity or false notes of trying to be cute and smug. Shit, I guess I must stop sharing what I write from now on. Too much misunderstanding. Too many insensitive, stupid monkeys masquerading as humans. Let's see if I could do it. Ground zero. Today. Sunday August 22, 2010. I just got chastised and verbally flogged for posting my words here. I was accused of unhealthy narcissism. How could I defend myself? I posted my views because I felt I could eloquently articulate what meant a lot to me. A discerning reader would and should see behind all the sound and the fury and the voluminosity of my words lies the "soul" of a dreamer. I dream of the impossible, of vanishing beauty, and of the redeeming and restorative powers of love. The poem in question was a product of insufficient sleep and the image of the falling rain in a windswept evening. I don't smoke cigarette. There was no woman laughing with teeth sparkling in the fading light of the evening. I wrote the "poem" in 7 minutes.

I don't need to lie in real life. I do enough lying in my imaginary life. Lying in fiction is much harder. I always like to do things the hard way. The easy way bores me and does not hold my interest.