Bohemian Delilah

I don’t dream in images. I don’t daydream in images. When I read books I don’t “see” what’s written. I mean, sometimes I’ll hear the voice of the person writing, and sometimes I’ll feel what’s being explained and I empathize with my dreams, if that makes any sense. But sight does not play into my imagination. People think this is odd, but I don’t care. I like it.

The thing I think is wierd, and that I really don’t like, is that my horror-daymares run in rather graphic movies.

I don’t trust other people. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before. You can run your mouth as much as you like as to the reasons why, I’m well aware of them, but it won’t change the fact that I don’t trust other people. I don’t believe that others really have the capacity for sane judgement. This lends itself to really really crazy moments in my head’s movie reel.

For example: We drive on the highway and there is a woman putting lipstick on while going faster than us. Then, while in front of us (after passing on the right), she slows down, for no aparent reason. And for the entire time all I can do is see over and over again, in slow and fast motion, her slamming on the brakes for no reason, and us going through the windshield.

I see myself tumbling down the escalators at the metro because someone has gotten pissed at me/is not paying attention to their bag/get’s their shoelace caught in the bottom and everyone on it goes tumbling forward. (Thank my mom for this one, when she visited she wouldn’t shut up about it.)

Terrorists may scare most people when they fly, me, I’m afraid that the airline pilot just doesn’t really feel like giving it his all tonight. So what, he says, if I read this magazine instead of fly the plane, I’ve phoned it in before…

I fear that the deli man didn’t wash his hands, that noone really smelled the milk before putting it in my coffee, that the guy who changed our windshield used the crappy glue which will make it come flying off.

And each scenario is accompanied by three or four little vingettes of HORROR. Many end with little shards of glass flying into my eyes.

The problem is, every time I begin to feel a little better someone does something stupid. I won’t go into the personal things that happen to those I love which make me want to spit down people’s throats… but other examples: The day we moved we found the car with a smashed windshield. There were footsteps on the hood. Someone had stood on the car and smashed in the windshield. And not just our car, but every fifth car for the entire street. Like, how do you believe that everyone isn’t just out to get you.