I had a dream that I was in greece last night...for some inexplicable reason I was sharing a hotel room with a midget fortune teller and a man who was wearing what can only be described as quad-focals. I was riding a ride that was similar to pirates of the carribean and was telling anyone who would listen how interesting it was that creatures that so closely resembled dinosaurs appeared to be jumping from the water and flailing in the air, like dolphins with considerably more armor. Everything was breathtaking despite its mythical qualities. The most breathtaking portion was the feeling of freedom that a dream--something that isn't real, for all Ive been led to understand and believe--afforded me. It was powerful, to say the least. More importantly, it seemed right in the way that so many other ambiguous decisions have seemed so hazy.
The last entry I wrote wasn't in a drunken stupor...thats simply not descriptive enough. It was a drunken fit of disappointment and dissillusionment, culminating in the misuse of certain words and sounding altogether like I had just locked myself in a small closet with a can of gold spray paint. Still--and ill allow myself to stop if I sound entirely too self-involved--there is something fascinating about reading something like that in such a completely different state of mind, only a few hours after the fact. I used to be so ashamed and embarassed of drunken journal entries, as if some grand-scale secret would somehow wiggle its way to the surface whenever I wasn't in complete control of my words.
Moderation isn't my enemy, its just an old friend I have yet to forgive.