“We are different people now,” she said.
“No," he said, "we were different people before--when we used to sit inside and laugh about the world outside. Now we; head down and hands tied, shuffle in the long grey line of death. We both are the same now, you and I... What happened to our dreams? I remember when they concerned fulfillment of love and kindness, gentleness and peace, patience and grace. Our dreams now are only concerned with money and power, style and consequence, self-fulfillment and disappointment. We dream of the future while disregarding the past and the present. We lost in our youth what we hoped to gain in adulthood, not realizing that we already had it--whatever it was, I can’t even remember anymore. I just know something’s missing. I catch a glimpse of it sometimes, when in a dark room, drunk and tired, I await something new. But it is fleeting and it fails me, or maybe I fail it. Is there more to life than sitting inside and dreaming of the world outside? What does it take to fulfill a dream that changes every day?
We were different people once.
We used to sit inside the comfort of our own world and laugh at the people outside the windows we imagined. The only thing I dreamed was you, so that a dream was anticipatory of waking. Now waking grows harder. Eagar am I no more to rise from the opulence of a life fulfilled in the sleeping realm. And they say life goes on. Most likely, they are right… and yet, I shudder to call this life.”
I have no idea what was going on in my life in October 2006 that caused me to write this. I don't know who I was thinking of... I don't even remember writing it. It's weird, because in reading it I feel like there was some severe pain behind it all, but I can't for the life of me recall it. Maybe that's a good thing. But it's strange, because it makes me feel like I don't really understand me. And shouldn't we know ourselves better than anyone else?
Eh. Who knows.
How am I not myself? How am I not myself?
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2 comments:
You know, when I was reading the story I was thinking about "How am I not myself?" and then you posted that clip... hahaha.
I do wonder sometimes if we compartmentalize our brain to hold things we don't want to remember about ourselves.
ah, steve, how strange that you wrote this recently -- I did the EXACT same thing yesterday. I had to turn on my old laptop (which I haven't rebooted for at least 6 months) to find an old short story that was on it, & I found loads of documents with journal entries in them, just sitting there.
what have I done with them? nothing. I suppose the point of journaling is getting out the words - not so much re-reading - but, I found myself thinking along the same lines as you. who was this person? am I so different now? I think I am, but i'm not so sure - if I were in similar circumstances, wouldn't I handle them the semi-same way?
& I love that clip. it's my favourite, along with the mayonaisse story. ;)
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