A Jar Ajar

Dreamt of another, still different ex last night. All Hallow's Eve is almost upon us, that must explain it. I don't have any particularly fond memories of Halloween, save for one where I did laundry, stayed in, got stoned and watched The Evil Dead. And it's not that I don't like Halloween, I do, it's just that none of them stand out in my mind. As such, I'll spare you any further musing on the subject.

I feel I weary lately, beset by a tedium and restlessness I cannot rid myself of. My days unfold monotonously, predictably, without excitement. I open my eyes and then I am out the door, on a bus, eating breakfast, working at my desk, running to meetings, hungry, eating dinner (again, at my desk), boarding a return bus, walking home, in bed, shutting my eyes. When weekends come they are gone too soon. They do nothing to replenish my energy. In fact, lately, they deplete it. I spend much of Monday, and some of Tuesday suffering, punished for stolen time. Before I know it a month goes by in this way, then two. On some days I am made more keenly aware of these feelings. I get the sensation of speeding along in an HOV lane before the sun has risen, racing madly toward old age, malady, decrepitude. I tire of this subject, too.

As I write this, I ask myself "what do you want."

An answer.

That's my immediate response. A moment's consideration tells me I won't get even that. Then what do you want, I ask again. Silence. Most people's problem is that they don't know what they want. The ones that do, often fail to realize they want what cannot be had; riches, fame, glory, power. On the one hand I feel our dreams should always be beyond our means, to keep us moving, to keep us striving, or else what are dreams for? But broken dreams hurt worse than broken hearts. When they shatter, shards of sharp self-hatred stab at us and resentments grow. We become irritable, mean and loveless. That first lot, the ones who knew not what they wanted, feel the deep, panging hollow of misspent time, of a lack of focus, of having missed something important which cannot be reclaimed. So, in truth, knowing what one wants actually makes little difference - we are all deceived by the duplicitous paradox of time. So what's the answer? Why do we go on knowing perfectly well how things will end?

Hope.

That we are wrong; that there are prizes stashed somewhere inside the cereal box; that true love will find us in the end; that given enough time, we might have an answer.

But hope is scarcely different than a dream, isn't it? It is the blood of dreams, the marrow in its bones. If this is so, then what is left is a closed circle - a circulatory system in which we are helplessly trapped.

Perhaps hope is worthwhile in and of itself. It is the last burning candle staving off the dark.

And when we dream, so are we.