The Irony of the Whole Thing

It's the same every time: I'm gliding along calmly not worrying about anything when suddenly I'm swimming desperately to the surface struggling for air. Then I sit up in bed in a panic and can't explain the dream I just had. It's happening right now. Only I'm wide awake. And the distant voice is yelling 'wake up' but I can barely hear it. 


Sometimes I walk around thinking about how happy I am and I forget everything else. Actually, I don't forget anything so much as I don't become involved in the first place. I just focus on whatever I'm doing. I can actually feel my brain learning things. Sometimes I'll start to worry but then I just stop myself. I mean, why worry? There's no reason to worry. 


Other times I'll wake up and realize that there is nothing but sunshine. Not anything else. Not nausea, not panic. Just the sun coming though the curtains. As you can imagine, this leaves room for lots of other things. And that's the irony of the whole thing, right there, if you asked me.

Childhood Kitchen

There was nearly a year spent sorting out my Dad's affairs after he died. For the duration we kept his house more or less operational. We had heat, air, groceries, dishes, utilities, toilet paper, mice, mouse traps. Sometimes I'd get there an hour or more before my brother. I liked the peace and quiet. I liked the moving-vehicles-in-the-sun type reflections that would suddenly appear then sort of stretch out across the one wall. I liked never knowing exactly where these reflections were coming from–or even, for that matter, from which window. Just as when I was little. That had not changed. That would never change. 

Options

You know, I could live in this glass of soda water. I could. I'd live in one of the bubbles. I'd sit cross legged and float in the nothing-nowhere. It would be cool and quiet. It would be like rolling through the hills in a brand new car on a brand new road. And life would be good. Too good, maybe. Sometimes I'd watch the other bubbles. But mostly I wouldn't bother. I'd just sort of un-focus my eyes and space out. I'd be able to really think in there, too. Not right away. But after a couple days the clear thinking would start and I'd be off finally solving mathematical mysteries or writing novels in my head. And the world outside the glass would dissolve away and, ultimately, lose all context and meaning for me. Which would be fine. Like an insect, I would no longer care nor actually be able to fathom the human-scale world. I would be small. Very, very small. And living in a bubble.