Looking back I realized the most defining part was how little I believed in any of it. It felt unreal, as so many parts of my life can, distant, fake, like a badly acted play I’m having problems following the details of, but whose point and course of action are too obvious to miss.
Look, I don’t know what feels “real.” I don’t know how we’ve been silly enough to decide anything could NOT feel real. We touch it, we smell it, we curl around it at night, it’s real, right? It’s an authentic example of a happening. If I can’t see what on the other side, something is there, blocking my view.
That’s real baby.
SO I want another word to express the deficit I describe. Another semantic that, maybe, possibly, implies a solution.
For anything. For everything. Not just these silly relationships I go on on on on on about. Not just the doldrums or the dailies that I willingly wander through at half mast because full throttle feels just all that much more like free falling. But a suitable adjective that will convey the painful distance I apt to experience from the very actions that come from me or happen around me or upon me or to me, and somehow touch me as deeply as muzak on dim, short elevator ride.
You know what I am talking about. The antidote to the sleepwalking life.
Caffeine to my intentions and a jolt of adrenaline to the instincts that fairy tales and myths of childhood still whisper are real, dormant, waiting for something better than fear to awaken.