Ending With Dreams

Starting with dreams, well, that describes how I felt. I mean, the whole thing, the whole "go to sleep, hallucinate and wake up" thing isn't so Freudian for me. I always know what my dreams mean, not some symbolic, New Age bookstore crap either. I know what they mean. 

When I dream of being locked in prison, having to tunnel my way out with a spoon, having to duck down a corridor just before the guard, demonic in appearance, turns around and sees me, well, I'm just dreaming of ways to escape from society. I guess it's some teenage angst thing, some rebellion against The Man thing I should have outgrown, but fuck that noise, I never sold out and just cuz I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me. Some Woody Allen quote.

But when I dream of floating downriver, in out-of-control boats and deflated balloons, I can't steer and the current is just taking me away, well, that's just me swept up in all of my life and that's nothing new. Who isn't overwhelmed by everyday circumstances, by the pressure of routine and deadlines and just having to be honest with yourself when you jostle around in sleep, wake up and comb your hair back into place, like nothing ever happened.

And then there's all the fist fights I used to get into during my restless, midnight escapades. I'd always lose. I'd always take the first punch, then my retaliation was like my arms were rubber, like I was trying to kick underwater and nothing ever connected the way I wanted it to. I'd be stabbed and beaten or I'd run, sprint down dark alleys and under yellow street lights and I'd always lose. 

I guess that's why, when my fist connected with the bastard's face, some prick starting shit with me over nothing, I couldn't hear myself screaming obscenities, didn't know I was yelling, "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, man," till I noticed he was on the ground, his buddy trying to both help him up and keep him from attacking me again, trying to stop something that shouldn't have started, that's why I felt so good. It wasn't just the adrenaline electrifying my swollen eye, blazing through my veins, wasn't just my bruised fist that felt so fucking good. And I felt on fire. It was the realization that I had overcome a nightmare.