Day Ten

Unfortunately, I am not a dreamer. Every night, I lay in bed, close my eyes, and wake up six to eight hours later with no recollection of any passage of time other than the time passage on my cell-phone clock. My wife has some pretty crazy-ass dreams and her recounting of them to me sparks feelings of disappointment and jealously at my own deficiency. Occasionally, I escape sleep with brief memory of a dream in process and try to tell myself to remember it, but this reasoning must always occur in a still subconscious level because as I reach for the pen and paper waiting on my bedside, I can never remember. Never. The only remnant of my dreams haunt me in the form of the uncanny; a kind of paranoia that colors my every action; an empty paranoia which has no tangible or comprehendible source; a Saussurean signified lacking the sign or the signifier or even the recognition of being signified at all!

This morning, I woke up, put on a pot of coffee, then picked up my jacket. It felt light. Reached into the pocket and realized my cigs weren't in there. I got very confused. I walked around the house for a minute wondering where I might of put them but unable to even begin looking in any place particularly. By deductive reasoning, I eventually determined that I must have been dreaming last night of being a smoker in some capacity and hadn't yet been able to separate that person from the real me. I only wish I knew who I was and what exactly I was doing as a smoker last night. It appears as though I have created a smoker alter-ego who lives in my mind and only shows himself when he knows I am not looking. I think I like this guy, as long as he stays where he is...