I have a narrator who follows me around. He's sarcastic and dry, and occasionally mean to me and others. And usually, I'm the only one who can hear him.
Okay -- he's me. He's my internal monologue. Fortunately, I keep him to myself most of the time. (This is fortunate, because as I said, he's quite mean at times.) He makes me feel like I really do live in a movie.
I'm not quite sure what genre it is. Probably some kind of mix between Romantic Comedy and Film Noir. Let's call it "Romantic Noir." It's Laura meets Sleepless in Seattle. It's Chinatown meets When Harry Met Sally. It's Play It Again, Sam meets...huh...okay -- maybe it's just some version of Play It Again, Sam.
And now my inner-narrator is making sarcastic comments about me being Woody Allen -- and not in a positive way. My narrator says I'm not as funny, I have worse luck with women, and most certainly don't have his paycheck. At least I'm better looking. And dress nicer...sometimes.
And I am definitely a better musician.
Without further ado:
Monday, April 12, 2010
The Windmill of My Mind
I've been having trouble getting to sleep lately. And by lately, I mean the last 16 or 17 years. It seems I have a thinking problem. I do too much of it.
This is nothing new. This is nothing unknown. This is nothing that is merely confined to the moments I lie in bed, lights off, teddy bear grasped. But it is me, for better or worse.
I think a lot about the past, the future, and the present. I think a lot about art, work, friends, me. I just think...a lot.
I've been looking for ways to turn my brain off. I've meditated to little avail. I've tried every concoction of tea my local herbalist has given me. But one thing is constant: I can't stop thinking.
I dream of the places I will one day be and of the places I've been; of the people I've met and the people I'm yet to encounter; of the stories I've heard and the stories I've told. The only problem is that all these dreams happen while awake.
My somber dreams are dreams I'd rather not remember.
And maybe that's why I stay awake; my dreams while awake are always better than my dreams while asleep.
At least those dreams are monthly, not daily.
This is nothing new. This is nothing unknown. This is nothing that is merely confined to the moments I lie in bed, lights off, teddy bear grasped. But it is me, for better or worse.
I think a lot about the past, the future, and the present. I think a lot about art, work, friends, me. I just think...a lot.
I've been looking for ways to turn my brain off. I've meditated to little avail. I've tried every concoction of tea my local herbalist has given me. But one thing is constant: I can't stop thinking.
I dream of the places I will one day be and of the places I've been; of the people I've met and the people I'm yet to encounter; of the stories I've heard and the stories I've told. The only problem is that all these dreams happen while awake.
My somber dreams are dreams I'd rather not remember.
And maybe that's why I stay awake; my dreams while awake are always better than my dreams while asleep.
At least those dreams are monthly, not daily.
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