My dream world is much better (even nightmares) than my real world.
Or vice versa. Because, which is which?
Well, one of them, the one I will refer to as my dreamstate, is way more interesting and abstract.
That secret life inside my head that only allows me entry when asleep (if I am, indeed, sleeping.)
In my waking world (or at least the one I assume I am awake in) I’ll see some of the work of others that is truly amazing and brilliant and meaningful (I’m talking art and writing here specifically) then, I look at my own work and think how pathetically mundane and insignificant. My art is not exciting, it’s utterly boring, and my writing is silly and inane. Mostly. When I’m not talking out of my arse (like now) and/or sounding all preachy (like now) and/or just complaining (like now).
It makes me wonder why I even try to do...anything.
What does one’s life really matter in the end?
Only to humanity, the rest of the universe, heck, every other living thing on earth, doesn’t care (and lucky for them. They don’t even realize what an impact we as a species have on them and the rest of the planet. And, btw, who do we think we are? Are humans the sole ‘owners’ of earth? I suppose we think we are, dividing it up amongst ourselves, taking and doing whatever we please.)
Anyway, we lead these very brief lives in the overall scheme of things, and what do we accomplish?
What is even the purpose of most? To procreate another to go on the same way?
I told you this was abstractedlydistractive. It’s basically how my brain works. I sometimes have trouble keeping things cohesive. It takes a lot to hold the elements of the body and mind together at the same time, and not let either drift apart.