Falling into that strange place, that special place inside, where pleasure and pain combine into a 3rd state, some kind of dreamworld on the virge of comprehension, where meaning replaces all logic, and it's just memories and colours and intensity, pure intensity, like you only know fully in your sleeping dreams, but sometimes it slips through into daytime, and you wonder, all this real life stuff, is it REALLY real life, is it really what it's all about?

When I go to sleep at night, real life doesn't matter, what I look like doesn't matter, who I am doesn't matter; it's just some pure sense of being. What if that was real life?

When I see things in dreams, the most simple things are so intense, like a sunset with silhouettes of trees, a big blue lake, a field, or just the sky. Why can't real life be like this?

I used to want to not exist, with a passion. Not so much because I hated the idea of life, but because I LOVED the idea of nothingness, with a passion. That idea seamed like bliss to me, sometimes even more so than the idea of existing forever in a dreamworld.

It's only really at times like these, when you pull apart the very fabric of reality and existence, that you can laugh at the sheer absurdity of Life Itself.

The day that I start worrying about my pension, and there's no decent comedy on telly, remind me to jump off a bridge with a Superman costume on. One last big laugh. The joke'll be on you God, you complete f***wit, if you're listening.

Hahaha...