Bedroom Epiphanies: Twisted Reality

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Won't you be my neighbor? No? Well fuck you then, bitch, I'll find a better neighbor somewhere down the line anyway, shit! Welcome to 1150 Writers Block, the house with more literary goodness and essentials than everything else you'll ever read. Why? Because I said so, and because I, being a good ass writer and the coolest asshole you'll ever associate yourself with, know how to detail problems out in a very calm, collected and in-your-face manner. That's why this is going to last. Today's topic...

It Doesn't Exist... Unless It's On Paper...

For me, writing is a chore and a passion beyond anything else I hold dear in this world. Why? That question reminds me of why I write entirely. At one point I nearly lost my passion for writing. I remember that pen and pad I had a long time ago when I was young (I'm not a kid anymore) and how I used it to box out my mother and father arguing. I remember how I used to use it to deal with my loved ones passing. Writing helped me and still does when I feel homeless, and especially now when I'm broke, my writing is a beacon of hope when I'm nearly hopeless. My writing is as essential to me as the rain; it takes away my pain and I never had to ask myself why I write again.

There is always this nagging, aching feeling deep in my heart though, the biggest problem I have with writing because I double up my jobs: I'm a writer second, a dreamer first. The funny thing about dreamers is that reality, life in general, becomes a chore, something you don't even look forward to anymore unless you do something to make it worthwhile and brand new everyday. That's my problem. Monotony has always been a problem for me because I can't stand doing the same thing again and again unless its of my own accord. Going to class day in and day out, eating the same food day in and day out, saying the same lines to the same females in the same tone, again and again, it's the same old routine. Why do you think so many writers die young, commit suicide? Can't repeat it.

I'm not suicidal though, was at one point (funny story if you want to hear it) but no longer. As a matter of fact I'm a little homicidal. The best moments of my existence come from when I do something brand new. I rode a roller coaster. Didn't like it and I won't do it again anytime soon. I stared down the barrel of a gun. Exciting and even pants wetting, but I will never do that again. I argued with the female version of myself (partly distracted; she has a nice chest, a cute little ass, cute face... probably taken though) to a self inflicted defeat because I didn't feel like mixing my logic with her rationale. That was fun. I'll do it again if I see her, and only half of that promise is due to her physical stature. It was a new experience, like waking up to snow on Christmas morning, playing Street Fighter 2 on an old arcade machine, or ditching your church group in New Orleans to sneak into a casino or look for Bourbon Street (funny story about some beads and a friendly saleswoman in her early 20s). For me, life is all about new experiences.

And what happens when those new experiences end? You're only assured X+2 events that are new and incredible. X is the number of years you live. You only turn the age you are once. One of the events is birth and the other is death. So, if you live to be 83 then you are assured 85 new experiences. But one experience a year is not enough for someone like me. That's why I dream. Dreams are impossible things, events that go from the mundane to the spectacular and everywhere in between with no restrictions other than the hours a person can stay in tune with the false reality called REM sleep.

What's scary about writers that double as dreamers is something known as a "Chimera Sky" (patent pending) which is synonymous with the phrase "dream high". When this happens a writer is thrown into a trance and dreaming takes on a sentience that can't be described or verified like it needs to be. It varies from writer/dreamer to writer/dreamer and it always turns out different every time. Being the writer/dreamer that I am I often see pop art relating to my situations in the same vein as Kanye West's Good Life or Kid Cudi's Day 'n' Nite. They're never the same either.

"Chimera Skies" are unpredictable. They take place in the most unexpected times and they can happen while a person is wide awake, like I am now. I'm talking to a tiny wolf creature with three black wings and a unicorn horn. He's speaking in Hebrew and writing a letter in Aramaic using a pen that's in his mouth. What's this mean? Sadly I won't know until I wake up after I fall asleep next. As twisted as my state of mind is I have never seen anything like this. It adds to the new experiences though. I'm sure I saw an angel one night long ago, pointing downward in an effort to tell me I was going to Hell. My response was a nod and going right back to sleep. I read Edgar Allen Poe's The Cask of Amontillado and couldn't sleep for about three years because the imagery scared me out of my shit. New experiences.

But therein lies the discrepancies. Life, our great gift from God, isn't full of new experiences. So where does that leave writer/dreamers like me? I always seek something new so I dream. I dream and deal with the terrible reality that half of what I dream, and in essence half of what I write, will never be real. Dreams are like fuel for the space shuttle that is my literary talent. My favorite story of mine thus far is the story of Lawrence Callier, a wandering delinquent that seeks a woman of myth who only dances and grants the wish of the man or woman that can be a suitable dance partner. This came to me in a song and in a dream, in that order. That little synopsis alone reveals about three or four of the references the story makes. Callier is the last name of the singer that did the song Dancing Girl, which I interpreted wrong at first making way for my particular dancing girl, who was a wandering delinquent herself. Writer/dreamers, we're a common breed. Those of us that talk about it are rare.

Depression sets in when reality does. Take my hand, if you can imagine my hand in front of you. Take it. Christopher Eugene Lamb is a grim character that doesn't try to hide it. He's happy and jolly and with good reason, but he's always dealing with terrible sorrow. His dreams will never really be realized because he dreams out of this world. Werewolves and seven mile long whales are pipe dreams, daydreams worthy of the bastard child mental capacity of Daniel Dumile and Wasalu Muhammad Jaco, but never reality.

So I understand why so many writers shoot themselves, though I disagree with the notion. How do you deal with knowing that your wildest dreams will always just be wild dreams? I'm not sure I can really answer that question. There's always been that voice in the back of my mind, that little voice saying, "This is the price you pay for this passion, and everything that I write is just a testament to it." The real question, that question I can answer, at least for myself, is, "Is it worth it?"

Shit, I'd be crazy to say that it wasn't. As much as I would love to say that it is a perfect campaign it isn't. We all die for what we believe in, and I believe in writing, and every time I write something my blood goes onto the paper or the keyboard. Call it a slow voluntary death, putting my talents to the best use possible. I'm not rambling or losing focus, but I am losing my chimera sky, I can't lie. Depression has no place in the high, and dreaming has no place in reality. However, when you combine the two as someone like me does then you have a constant conflict that won't end in this lifetime. What do I do? I endure, as do many writers. If you know what I'm coming from then be my guest and drop a comment or something, tell me how you feel about the situation, share a story, but don't just say, "I agree 100%" or some shit like "It's too long". Hmm, "it's too long", eh? There's the topic for the next room: Room of Broken Expectation. Thank you.