Whereas I have a reputation for procrastinating on just about everything, the sprawl of grey matter in my head would like to clarify that it was never a willing accomplice to your discontentment. Because, as I have been coerced into illustrating, it certainly makes no delays (nor discretion, for that matter...) in having me informed about the malaise posed by even trace amounts of stress in my body.
As usual, my brain thinks it knows better. Or maybe it's addicted to keeping me on my toes. I don't have recurrent dreams, because that would easily classify them as nightmares (as if my brain would make it so convenient for me); they're definitely not the stuff of cotton-candy either. It's simply mentally-induced harrassment of the self. Harrassment because frustration in the surreal is uncalled for in the absence of apparent stress.
They lurk around in an assortment of shapes and sizes. Sometimes I am trying to escape the clutches of a shadowy, faceless monster in slow motion. Other times I could traverse the world yet have my destination evade me. One thing characterizes my experiences though: I go round and round in circles, and at the heart-rate of urgency too. At least I've no lack of creative juices, I guess.
A friend of mine posted a rather interesting tagline on his msn some while ago: I spend all my time in the lab because I don't have a girlfriend; I don't have a girlfriend because I spend all my time in the lab. What better way to surmise my agony: I have tension dreams because I am stressed out; I am stressed out because of my tension dreams.
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