The days this week had become unbearable. I had just lost one of my biggest clients, and no one seemed to empathize with my loss. One of my best friends, who was fired from his job in April this year, told me that his psychologist said that losing one's job is equivalent to the feeling you get when you lose someone. Mourning, that's the feeling. Yet, nobody seemed to care about my losing a client. Everyone was like: "Cheer up, everything will be alright."
I had also recently lost my dad. We weren't that close, but it was something I did not expect to happen when it did. And this is not me just complaining. I had been a man who had shown quite a bit of resilience, and despite the darkness, I kept pushing forward. But maybe my age had worn me down a bit. I just needed to halt for a bit and be acknowledged, but not so much to look weak. What the hell was happening to me?
I didn't know what I was supposed to do and how I was supposed to react to all this shit that was happening. I could have just gone to a grill party and gotten wasted and then suffered the following day? No. This was not what I wanted to do. And neither was it for people to feel sorry about me. It was a pretty damned mess. And it was my mess to clean up. As it has always been.
I still wanted to get drunk, but I didn't want to feel sorry for myself. I just wanted to get numb and do what I think I am best at. And that is to write stories that no one reads. Or a few selected lucky people do eventually. Maybe one day someone will read one of my stories and offer me a life-changing amount of money for the rights to my life. Or, maybe someone will read between the lines and tell me that I was never alone and there are tons of people who feel like I do. And I wonder if that will make me feel happy, connected, or if I am just delusional and nobody will ever care about the things I am going through. And probably that's the most accurate assessment of the situation. Everyone is going through hell and purgatory, and why am I the only one who needs a helping hand when we are all alone in the end?
At least I hadn't killed anyone. In real life, that is. I had a strange dream last night where I was trying to escape cause I had been blamed for murdering someone. I couldn't tell if I had or not in the dream. I just knew I had to escape, run away because they were after me. And this is something I have always enjoyed about Dreamland. The ability that I have to enjoy both nightmares and the occasional sweet dream.
The worst thing was that sometimes Insomnia would fill my mind and poison my state of rest. And no matter how hard I tried to fall asleep, no matter how many sleeping pills and lettuce tea I drank, the outcome would always be the same. I would lie in bed in agony. trying to dream something just so that my body would rest. Even if it was a nightmare. I liked nightmares. They reminded me of how good my life in the real world was. Even if I had to run away from a murder scene. And my DNA was all over the body.
Sometimes, knowing that I was dreaming was more soothing than getting drunk after work. Or even after a social event, when, after too many drinks, I would show my true colors and tell people why I dislike them. Whether it was their character or the lack of it. Even if the rest would agree with me, they would never show it. So I was always shunned when this happened. I never understood why people who have the same opinion often hide it from the rest. Maybe it's just to save face. Maybe they are not as brave or dumb as I am.
I gulped 5 cans of beer, and there was nothing. No soothing effect. Only words in my head that needed to be written. I was considering mezcal shots like yesterday. But yesterday I had some music on that would contribute to the ambiance and amplify my feelings. Not today, no music, just the unbearable heat of summer, what on the news they call a heatwave signaling global warming. Losers, charlatans, and magicians. They all will go to hell eventually. But in the meantime, they poison the airwaves with lies and shit.
My youngest cat was meowing, always cueing bedtime. And the noise the cooling fan makes, making it feel 5 degrees lower than the actual temperature, would call me to bed. And even with the windows ajar, I do not seem to hear anyone outside complain about the so-called tropical weather. If they just travelled more, they would know that this is summer and it's supposed to be hot. Whatever did they learn in geography all those years at school, and their IQs?
Well, in the end, it doesn't matter because I am alone with my feelings, and they are alone with their beliefs. And all I know is that September will come and everything will be fine, and I will rest assured that whatever happened in my dreams was only a dream.
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