Month: April 2013

I heard a statistic about the workplace in the UK. Seems psychopaths are ten times more likely to be employed at metropolitan corporations than at places outside major hubs. Or it’s one out of every ten people is a psychopath. That is, someone with no empathy. Someone who learns the behaviors and can manipulate others rather easily. We call these people climbers where I come from. They know how to do it. They don’t care how it gets done. In this way, they succeed.

In this dream from the other night, I had some measure of control. It spanned several hours, across the dawn break. If I began to wake I could focus on the world in which I existed and reform my reality. Out of this one and back into the dream. A willful decision to exist elsewhere. There were many people in the dream. Many roads taken. All forgotten. It led to a conclusion. The end of the dream was an elevator ride to the top of a skyscraper. At the top of this skyscraper, the elevator door slid open, and there was a glowing metropolis below. City lights, cars, the hustle. The city’s edge faded into the black desert, beyond which was the silhouette of the mountains, beyond which was the night sky. Purples, blues, blacks, clusters of light. My task was to accept death as the natural final stage and step out of the elevator toward the street below. I’d heard an interview earlier that day about a character who nearly walked into an empty elevator shaft. His crises of existence. There have been more deaths as the years pass. The years have compressed some. Dreams are my only capable state.

I say, “Give me ten more years. Let me get to forty here in the city.” I am not prepared to leave. I would be weak and play the parts necessary to be with people, waiting, arms sprawled across the backs of chairs. Smiling a liar’s smile.

The world is never waiting.

I heard a statistic about the workplace in the UK. Seems psychopaths are ten times more likely to be employed at metropolitan corporations than at places outside major hubs. Or it’s one out of every ten people is a psychopath. That is, someone with no empathy. Someone who learns the behaviors and can manipulate others rather easily. We call these people climbers where I come from. They know how to do it. They don’t care how it gets done. In this way, they succeed.

In this dream from the other night, I had some measure of control. It spanned several hours, across the dawn break. If I began to wake I could focus on the world in which I existed and reform my reality. Out of this one and back into the dream. A willful decision to exist elsewhere. There were many people in the dream. Many roads taken. All forgotten. It led to a conclusion. The end of the dream was an elevator ride to the top of a skyscraper. At the top of this skyscraper, the elevator door slid open, and there was a glowing metropolis below. City lights, cars, the hustle. The city’s edge faded into the black desert, beyond which was the silhouette of the mountains, beyond which was the night sky. Purples, blues, blacks, clusters of light. My task was to accept death as the natural final stage and step out of the elevator toward the street below. I’d heard an interview earlier that day about a character who nearly walked into an empty elevator shaft. His crises of existence. There have been more deaths as the years pass. The years have compressed some. Dreams are my only capable state.

I say, “Give me ten more years. Let me get to forty here in the city.” I am not prepared to leave. I would be weak and play the parts necessary to be with people, waiting, arms sprawled across the backs of chairs. Smiling a liar’s smile.

The world is never waiting.

Pop does this thing where he sits on the living room couch and stares across at the wall in silence. He turns off the television if everyone but him leaves, most likely to watch television elsewhere. I can remember him in his twenties and he didn’t always do this. He used to watch like we did. Then, over the years, he just trailed off into a hermit-like state of silence and contemplation. It was strange. I never asked what he thinks about. I figured it was the next repair to make. I belittled much about him and many of my elders over time. Small minds, small thoughts.

Pop does this thing where he sits on the living room couch and stares across at the wall in silence. He turns off the television if everyone but him leaves, most likely to watch television elsewhere. I can remember him in his twenties and he didn’t always do this. He used to watch like we did. Then, over the years, he just trailed off into a hermit-like state of silence and contemplation. It was strange. I never asked what he thinks about. I figured it was the next repair to make. I belittled much about him and many of my elders over time. Small minds, small thoughts.