I usually don't sleep very well in the days leading up to certain occasions.
As much as I hate the feeling of waking up groggy, it's interesting as well, in the sense that the ideas that seem to take fleeting shape in dreams reveal a little about the things that motivate us.
Of all that remains of the things that I thought of and imagined as a child, of all the child-person that I used to be, my dreams remain the only direct connection to that strange, fearful and colourful world. I often miss that person. I wonder what he would think of the things in this life, what he would say, whether he would laugh, whether he would be afraid.
I have a book by Freud which is titled the Interpretation of Dreams. I didn't manage to finish it when I was about sixteen or seventeen. Writers in the German language, and I'm sure Freud is quite an example, tend to write in very long sentences, and perhaps that is how they think as well. I will give it a shot again, hopefully soon. From what I recall of it, dreams are a kind of reflection, a wish-fulfillment. And so I think there is something to be said about dreams having a certain theme of self-consolation.
I found myself in a supermarket the other day, thinking about things that I could offer to my old friends, guests of my home. I find it a little funny that even today I still don't know what to think of it all.
Patience? I've been single for twelve years, man. I'm a monk. I don't need patience, I'm good.
