I don’t know what becomes of us crazies in the end.

I dreamed last night of an old demi-god who frolicked with a lover and died when he should have been with his true woman. He was born again, but into regret of his mistake. That rebirth was me. Then I was someplace else and I saw the ‘one’ for me. She was stood by a wall. I knew her but couldn’t place her name, and then I woke

to another Friday.

To force myself up out of bed, to work, then to drink, then to a Casino, to lose, to drink some more and then go home.

What becomes of us?

I sit and watch the fan blowing the hot air around.
Thinking about it.

Dark clouds loom and drop rain on the summer. I am here. Writing.
About a life I lived. Maybe more than once. I just don’t know.
I have seen so very much of the truths that are the same for all of us, yet I know so very little.

What exactly we do seems to matter very little. Who we are, or what we try to be; Winners, Losers, Richmen or poor, Hunters, Achievers, Seekers or bums sat watching the slow failure of the human race. What we are, matters very little.

What matters more is that whatever it is we do we strive to remain awake, aware, watching, observing ourselves, become conscious, become present in the moment. All these things seem to me to be more important than what we are actually doing. And yet in the end, they really are not that important at all.

Then I got to thinking; what becomes of us crazies if there is no end?