Saturday, February 01, 2020

Don't Want To Wake Up

     There is a non-zero chance that my life since about, oh, 1989 or '90 has simply been a lengthy, detailed dream. '94 at the latest.

      Things as simple as Amazon: there used to be a purveyor of Victoriana/Civil War-era stuff called "Amazon Vinegar & Pickling Works," and I ordered items from their mail-order catalog. What if they were online and sold everything, especially books?

      The World Wide Web is just the old e-mail+Usenet News Internet revved up and in full color.

      eBay and Etsy? Wouldn't it be great if there was a hamfest/junk store that was open 24/7/365?

      The Freewrite/Alphasmart/The Writer devices are just my old manual typewriter, made convenient and paper-free.

      Blogging and my pal Tamara Keel? I'm a very shy, introverted person and a bit agoraphobic. Wouldn't it be great if there were a way to meet people that wasn't in person and didn't involve leaving the house? And what if one of them became my best friend?

      And on and on. Of course, now I'm starting to feel the touch of age, with arthritis and poor eyesight; the dream may be taking a dark turn. I still think there's a small but non-zero chance that I have been hallucinating for thirty years, and God only knows what kind of terrible real world is really out there.


Comrade Misfit said...

Apparently there is a line of thought that the Universe is really a 4-D construct and that our universe is a 3-D hologram inside a black hole.

I don't understand how all that would work.

B said...

And even if it WASN'T a dream, could you prove it isn't?

C'mon now, wake up....

Paul said...

pretty big hallucination if you ask me. Not that you did.

More activity, less pain. but pain makes it hard to do more activity. Kind of a catch 22.

hope you find some joy somewhere.

pigpen51 said...

As I was reading this,I was reminded of the old TV show, that I actually liked,
St.Elsewhere. The ending was pretty much like that, with the entire series having been merely a figment of the imagination of an autistic son of, I think, David Morse.