but we were so much older than...

It's March 19th, two-thousand and five anno dominus, and I'm sitting drinking a Dick's Danger Ale in the back of my radical bookstore. Reading Transmetropolitan and surfing the web on one hit of fairly strong LSD and fuck all today 'cause it's alright. Even given the state of things. Even given that our heroes are dead or dying and the new ones don't have names. But that's all alright 'cause I'm sitting here looking at a Chandler & Price Platten Press from the 1930s, wiping beer off my chin and drooling over all the opportunities. I've been trying to come up with a word for a dream that comes true before it's time, before you want it to, and the closest thing I've got so far is anachromorph. But what about a deluge of dreams? How does one struggle in such a ferocious current? I'm twenty-two and have two babies, a beautiful woman, a successful bookstore, a printing press, fantastic friends that sometimes seem so far away but the whole world is here at my fingertips thanks to this buzzing techno-den three screens deep in macintosh hardware, surrounded by the nicest library I've ever seen concentrated in one place before. It's no wonder I'm at a loss for words, I'm drowning in them all the time. It doesn't help when you do some simple calculations and realize that, barring the advances of medical technology that will allow you to live for two hundred years, you've only got enough time left to read a few thousand more books so you start thinking that if a picture is worth a thousand words... needless to say I've been neck deep wading thru our graphic novels and comic books for the last three months now, mind agape at the endless possibilities of the medium, the pretty colors, the differences in depth of characters and the stunning pen and ink architectural backgrounds (Honour Among Punks).
It's always an interesting feeling when the world increases exponentially in size thanks to one tiny thought, one simple doorway, one new key. It makes me first simper down and cower at the overwhelming enormity of it all before realizing that there are new heroes out there and I'm one of them. The life I am living could be someone else's dream. Ego-centrism aside, but isn't that what blogging is partially for? lost amid this specific daily monotonous caterwaul of wasted dreams
why do I allow them to linger so?
passing over my convex consciousness like water or tears on a hot rock
my dreams die screaming and steaming out their malformed messages
as shadows pressed against the reeling walls of my sense of self
forever shrinking it seems.

I must get used to repetition and routine
practiced observations and actions become second nature
but I fear my second nature may become twisted by my aversion to habit
and wander off, lost in its own infinitesimal apologetic ego
more to follow, disjointed thoughts but joy resides within.