There must be a word, a term, outside of my own vocabulary, to describe the precise feeling of a dream bleeding into life. Not knowing when it began and if it ended. There must be some medical diagnosis for this feeling of detachment from one's own body, one's own life. Feeling vivid asleep and clouded awake must be an illness because this can't be living. And to look at everything with resentment and objection. To be a monumental objector in this world is a curse. Always writing everything off. Always pushing everyone away. An objector gets creative in pushing loved ones away. Smother smother... or to be distant. Or even to be cold. At times cruel. Others irrational, crazy, mad. But how does an objector gain any control if nothing remains within reach? How can an objector survive this way? Does the objector care even? There's no sense of attachment to the real world, why care?
And yet, the objector feels so much at all times. Objectors cry and scream. It's as though they are constantly living in a state of grieving. Constantly living in a place of consequences and rarely in a place of experience. Ah, experience. The very thing that depressives yearn for. The privilege of experience does not relish within the depressed or the objector. And it is once the depressed and the objector collide that salvation seems absurd. Salvation: too main stream and logical for the objector, and too tiring and impractical for the depressed.
Pain becomes the only thing real. The only thing strong enough to penetrate the shield of self loathing and animosity built around them. Pain, it seems, becomes excitement. Pain as a compass. Pain as a landmark to the waking life. And yet, pain exists in the dream world under pseudo-circumstance and hyper reality as perceptibly as anywhere. It lingers throughout the day, like a residue sticking to a mood and fluctuation of occurrences. How can the depressed objector escape anguish? Perhaps through lucid dreams. Perhaps that is the only way to gain control.
Or perhaps the depressed objector needs to drop the existential crisis that is his life and realize that life can only mean something if he wants it to. That all these objections he carries around everyday and all the depression is a hand bag full of daily drudgery and simple problems. That it is easily dispersed through a tunnel of release, like a drain sent to sewage... and one day he can be free of it if he can just ignore his narcissistic tendencies--if he can look past the desolate nature of the world and accept the colours of the flowers and scent of freshly cut grass. All the simple things that one should admire, the depressed objector should too. Perhaps that is the remedy for us all. Perhaps is all there is. Perhaps as possibility, as never-ending paradox. Perhaps-- that is all I know, for nothing in life is as certain as the sun rising and setting.