From the Brain of Matty

hello, cruel world (28.09.04 7:08 pm)

Last night we went to the movies. We saw Dodgeball. Despite everything, I found it quite entertaining. Except maybe for that bit at the end, after the credits. Then, because we didn't feel like going straight home, we didn't. Instead, we went down to The Strand (which is Townsville's beachfront, replete with public barbecues, parks and hypercoloured rubber-coated kids' jungle gym equipment). It was .. strange. Do you remember when you were a teenager, when you'd go out in the late afternoon, and not come home until well past dark? When you'd just stay out for the sake of staying out, because you didn't want to come back? [No? Well I did.] In Mareeba I used to go for a wander down around the duck ponds. Or if it was later at night, through town. One time I walked all the way to Dimbulah (a tiny sattelite town) and hung out with my then-girlfriend in the schoolgrounds until it got so late I phoned Mum and asked her to drive out and pick me up. I did it all because I didn't want to go home - even though there wasn't really anything else I wanted to do. Ever since I've had my own place, I haven't really been able to have that feeling. When you're the grown-up, staying up late is means not going to bed sooner. The whole point of staying up late is.. gone. It's not "staying up late" anymore. It's the same with "staying out late". I'm the one with the key to the front door. I'm the one with the signature on the lease. I'm the oldest (and therefore most responsible?) person who lives in the flat. There's no one to rebel against. There's no "late" to stay out past, unless I define it myself. But last night I felt it. It felt like we were wandering around, not caring about the time or what we had to do tomorrow, or when our parents thought was a reasonable time to be home. It felt like we were teenagers again, rebelling against .. er, whatever you've got. *shrug*

I love that feeling. And I didn't realise just how much I've missed it, until I felt it again.

Then, woe of woes, my wife was just too tired, so we walked back to the car park, hopped in the car, and drove home. I never had that luxury as a teenager. I used to walk until I was tired enough to stop, and then have to walk all the way back again. That was half the fun. But I guess I'm not a teenager anymore.

I hope I don't end up living vicariously through my own children some day.

Last night/this morning I had a stupid dream. I barely remember any of it, except that I know it involved sex, my wife, another man, and possibly another woman. Beyond the basic premise, I can't really remember the context. And if I were to try to explain it, I'd lose whatever memory of it I have, and it'd come out all wrong anyway. All I really remember now, almost 12 hours later, is that I woke up jealous and a little depressed. I don't like those kinds of dreams. I hardly ever dream as it is - at least, no so I can remember. So why, when I do remember my dreams, are they always shitty?

I love my wife. I know she'd never do anything to hurt me. (Apart from physically, but she can't help her violent clumsiness ) I know it's just a silly dream that I can't even remember anyway.

Ah, stupid dreams.

I'm not dead.
matty /<

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