Every night I give myself dreams with which to entertain the neural pathways of my brain.

Some mornings, or interrupted moments at night, the dreams doubly entertain me.

And, for many like myself, the dreams become reality.

In other words, I’m happily mad.

My ability to control the environment around me cannot be real.

So, I resort to feeding off my dreams.

With so many people creating physical versions of their crazy dreams, from Disney World to the Third Reich, why do I feel guilty pursuing mine?

Guilt or low self-esteem?

How does a chameleon personality live, or even survive, within self-perpetuated dreams?

Upon what do I feed?

Should I tell you my nightmares?

Every one of them?

Or the insanity that is me, hidden inside this normal-looking body?

I saw the first part of a movie about Gilda Radner and heard her say that when she was a kid, she dreamed of going on stage.

My primal self asks, “Is that a viable dream?  We have to feed and clothe ourselves.  What does standing on a stage acting out silly skits got to do with the reality of basic survival?”

In other words, I felt envious of Gilda’s realisation of her childhood dream.

Me, I just wanted to think and write for as far back as I can remember.

I’ve acted out silly skits on stage, including one that I co-wrote back in junior high school.

I was president of the high school drama club for two years, performing in several stage productions.

I worked the cash register at a fastfood joint.  I cooked the food, making personal decisions about the quality of the food I was passing to the customer.

I’ve given speeches, spoken about business proposals, held conference calls, managed my own employees and coordinated international product development/production.

Forty-four years after the first time I remember thinking for myself (as opposed to simply recording what was going on around me), I am here thinking and writing for myself again.

How much do I value this freedom?

Would I join others who oppose restrictions on my and their similar freedoms?

My parents always thought I’d be a peace marcher if I was born ten years earlier; yet, despite many opportunities, I’ve never created an anti[pick your favourite cause] sign and picketed anything.

Other people’s causes are not my style, although, as a chameleon personality, I have found myself repeating others’ words and phrases in mock protest.

I guess that’s what it is, isn’t it?  I mock myself and others because none of it seems real.

This is all just one big dream to me, from first conscious beginning to last conscious breath.

Otherwise, none of it matters.

Except one desire…

I crave variety in small doses.

Despite my ability to manipulate the environment around me, I don’t need to feed that ability to make me who I am or will be.

Ruling the universe, or just local parts of it, seems absurd.

I am the result of my environment.

An environment full of people climbing over each other to get what they want, to be heard over the din of noises of this planet, this solar system, in order to validate their existence in some way.

For some reason, I can’t take any of it seriously.

My self, especially.

I’m sure there is a “why?” and an appropriate answer for why, but it doesn’t really matter.

I just want to daydream, and if my daydreams cross your paths, then my chameleon personality will reflect you back to yourself and I’ll go on, seeking the variety in my daydreams.

I am the greatest person alive in my daydreams so why should I seek validation of my greatness from you?

I am also the worst person alive, the smartest, the dumbest, the cleverest, the clueless, the thinnest, the fattest, the oldest, the youngest, etc.

A universe of seven billion personalities exists in this body/brain combo.

That’s a large reason why I’m closing this blog down.

Just because I can latch my chameleon personality onto the whole species and reflect what’s going to happen next doesn’t mean I enjoy it.

It’s just what I do to seek a quick burst of variety in my imaginary dream world.

Like a bad drug habit.

Addicted to predicting social/planetary change.

And in the process, accidentally causing the change to happen.

I don’t want to cause change.

I want to keep dreaming my crazy dreams, where violence and peace live next door to each other, taking turns wiping each other out and regenerating like a cat with infinite lives.

Or a tapeworm.

Tragedy and Comedy knocking each other off the stage.

You can see where this is going.

Your reality IS my dream world.

Crazy, huh?

There’s no escaping dreams or reality.

It’s all the same.

Insanity is sanity, or the other way around.

One can be an Eagle Boy Scout and a scoundrel at the same time.

One can see suburban life as paradise or suburgatory.

If I have to seek a thought that tells me, “Well, now, suburban life is just fine.  Have you ever seen the shanty towns of Mexico City or Rio?  Or the hundreds of thousands of starving children in Africa, India or China?  Doesn’t the thought of those places make you feel so much more secure and happy with your easy, suburban life?,” then I have coated over the shack of my thoughts with overpriced, opulent wallpaper.

And yet, here I am.

Sitting in middle of suburbia, relatively crime-free (except the aforesaid scoundrels like my former youthful self wandering the neighbourhoods as preteens looking for mischief because our parents could only afford to pay for a few after-school indoctrination/training lessons, giving us freedom to explore the woods, honing our new scouting skills, or break into abandoned homes, repeating what we’d seen on television and in films, playing spies and stealing little items for our “secret agent” clubhouse).

What is this chameleon going to blend into next?

Good question.

In the meantime, I’m going to serialise some of the books I’ve written where I realised my crazy dreams on paper.  (Well, not paper, actually.  I guess I could say I realised my dreams on screen.)

Dreams that took into account some of the stories you’ve told me (remember, I’m a chameleon, or leech, as the viewpoint may be), reportedly about your real life, no matter how imaginary it, too, might be.

Enjoy the show!

[This note was written in LibreOffice 3.3.2 Writer under Ubuntu 11.04 on a SanDisk 4 GB SDHC card connected to a Transcend SD card reader attached to a Compaq Presario C501NR Notebook PC]