I swear to drunk I'm not God!

I'm hearing Team America could be a big hit at the box office. If the previews I've seen are anything to judge it by, I'd say it appears to be the most dreadful cinematic invention since South Park. And that's saying a lot.

For some reason, I've been waking up just before dawn the past couple days, and upon noticing the very first light of day outside my bedroom window, migrating outside to revel in the early morning euphoria. Such is the expression I use to describe that magical daily transition between the darkness and my very first glimpse of the rising sun. The atmosphere almost always inspires a powerful sense of sentimentality within me that warms me inside and makes me shiver on the outside. I'm usually reminded me of that unforgettable experience where I became lost in the Arizona mountains and had to wait out a long, cold night sleeping on hard rocks. As I lay back on the dirt, thoroughly tired, shivering in the cold due to lack of any warm clothes, and uncertain I'd ever regain the trail I had somehow meandered off, I had no way of telling time, and I sincerely began to feel as if daylight would never arrive. About all I could do was stare up at all that empty void between and beyond the stars, imagining there had to be something else out there far beyond what humanity would ever have the capability to discover preceding its own extinction. That's a lovely thing to think about, really. Worlds full of magnificent inhuman life forms even more evolved, but in a good way, so far away that humans could never hope to reach them. I have a certain fondness for the song "Nowhere Fast" by Incubus, for it was the song playing through my head through most of the night, one of the only things keeping me company and preventing me from convulsing into a panic. When I did finally find the trail hours later, and managed to get back to the parking lot with what little water I had left, I was overcome with an incredible sense of relief... relief of a magnitude I had never before felt. Relief is a spectacular feeling, for it usually comes right on the heels of some dreadful emotion, and stands in such sharp contrast to it. The rapidity and intensity of the transition can be mind-blowing, as it certainly was that morning.

So, that's only one of the many reasons early morning euphoria arouses my sentimental side and often brings tears to my eyes. The new light of day represents a renewed sense of hope. Plenty of other factors contribute to the sum total of beauty, certainly. This morning, everything was shrouded amongst a dense layer of fog, which always makes me feel as warm spiritually as a heavy blanket warms me physically. The serenity in the air was breathtaking as my bare feet padded through the cool, damp, freshly mowed grass of the front yard. All is usually quiet save for the stirring of the winged beasts, whose graceful movements and euphonious melodies I exceptionally adore. So few humans seem to pay any attention to them, for they are nothing out of the ordinary; nothing to gossip about at the beauty parlor during a manicure or the bar over the football game. Most people, it seems, are usually in such a rush to conform to a pre-destined agenda that they rarely if ever take the valuable time to notice the "small things." To myself, the small things in life are easily the more important things, for whether they are recognized individually or not, they add up to shape the very fabric of the world surrounding us. The audible rustling of a bird's wings as it takes flight just outside my window. The lovely musical notes that persistently play on in my head. The perpetual motion of nature, be it reflected in the gentle breeze caressing the leaves, or the rhythm of the ocean. The ocean as an inanimate entity wouldn't be nearly as splendorous, but how often does one actually think of that? How often does one think about our being in constant motion, even as we sleep? How many have ever imagined Earth stopping its speedy rotation on a dime and the sort of cosmic windshields the consequential inertia of humanly unfathomable proportions would send us flying through? How often do we stop and bless whatever imagined deity for the gift of gravity which keeps us anchored on familiar ground most of the time? How often do we praise our good health even in times of unrelated misfortune? How often do we recognize how fortunate we are to be able to express ourselves to others who genuinely care for us, and need not face the indifference of the natural world all alone? The subtle things in life need not go unnoticed even in spite of their subtlety, for they are collectively the infrastructure of our daily existence. Beauty and mystery is everywhere, and I try to capture and reflect it the best I can, much like the pigment in the leaf of an evergreen does the first rays of the sun to maintain its own survival. It once saddened me to sincerely believe, based on my earnest observations, that I was the only one I knew who was particularly receptive to such majestic sensations. Even my own parents labeled me a "sensitive child," and I came to realize how much of a gift that is.

I've been downloading hundreds of songs lately, mostly from foreign artists, and am pleased to report that the quality of most of it greatly surpasses the utter mediocrity and formulaic manufactured blandness of so much American music. If anyone who may be reading this wants some good music, let me know. Music is one of many things I love to share.

On a different note, I don't relish nightmares much, but I did experience one last night. For some reason, many of them seem to involve me becoming completely detached from my own body. ...Not in a good way, obviously. The bad dream started out with me getting up to use the bathroom, a typical prelude I've experienced many times before. It's as if someone had written a script designed to convince me, the participating audience of the nightmare, that this was actually reality. After all, everybody sleeps and everybody pees, but not everybody pees in their sleep. (Deep.) I turned on the bathroom light, because of course the dream took place at nighttime. Upon taking care of business, I happened to glance up at the mirror. Instead of seeing my handsome Arcanine facial features and expression, I saw ... nothing. Nothing but the closed door directly behind me. It's a scary thing when you look into a mirror and realize you're the only thing that isn't reflecting. I tried feeling for my body (oh, baby), and ended up swatting at thin air. Looking down, I saw more nothingness. Apparently, I was physically non-existent. At this point in the dream, I wasn't frightened so much as genuinely fascinated. As I exited the bathroom, I felt as if I was floating ... flying, almost. If this was a lucid dream, I would have tried soaring over the ocean towards Maui, a mere 30 mile journey away from here. One thing I should not have done was return to my bedroom. When I got back to my bed, I noticed it was already occupied ... by a thoroughly decomposed skeleton. I immediately assumed it was myself ... and of course, right then, the overhead light burned out, and I tried desperately to turn it back on at the light switch, with no luck. That's happened in my dreams innumerable times, and I believe it all relates back to that horrible nightlight dream I had when I was six. That familiar feeling of paralyzing fear clenched me in its grasp as a cacophonous ringing sound filled my ears, and I soon found myself lying in bed, struggling to escape from the dream entirely. It took me maybe fifteen minutes of being conscious before I could finally will myself to move, and recognize I still had a body. I was quite thankful to look up and see the soft, comforting glow of my blacklight directly above me rather than complete darkness. Perhaps manicotti just before bed isn't the most splendid idea.

I'm going back to sleep, soon.