Me, Myself, I and my Other

How would I describe myself? How could I describe myself? Shall I say what I think the future may hold for me? Or maybe what I think my life is like at the present?

When I see myself, what am I? I see leaf green flashes of colour, tinged with a muddy brown under the fluffed bush of long reddish brown hair. There is a glimpse of pinky red lips, ripped in anxiety. The coarse stubble of brown hair on my chin and upper lip. And a light, shining from the deepest reaches of my soul; this is my personality, you either like me or not. My clothes are unusual, thin jeans and a black striped shirt with waistcoat. So innocent. What has happened to me?

A nightmare, the once untruly problemless life vanished. Drink. Sit. Talk. I did just that, coming home drunk only to destroy my wife’s face. I don’t mean to. I don’t know my strength…
I love her, I hate it, I hate loving her, I wish I could just be alone. I can’t leave her to be free without me because of love. Yet that very same love fails to protect her from my blooded fists, to protect our children, stop it hearing it’s mother’s jaw crack as I hit her again and again and again. My head screams to stop, my wife screams to stop, my son screams incoherently. I hate this, what has happened to me?

Or the other world, where I am alone, following a path that leads only to darkness and desolation. Drugs, alcohol and tobacco are my life and such a life it is when I sleep in a bed once a month. Standing on a street-side, I pay the money, chase the dragon. I fall asleep in a curb, drugged beyond measure. I hope I die here. I am dreaming. Falling. I can’t remember the last time I was sober and conscious. I hate this, what has happened to me?

Then the dream, as I walk the snow covered path to my front garden, I hear the sounds of merry celebration inside. Peering through the window, I see a roaring fire, and children running, laughing. I walk away, such a metaphor of loneliness should not be in a dream? I walk to the front of my house, its dark, they must all be in the front room. I step through the porch , the sound of laughter dies, I hear muffled voices. I open the door to the front room, stare into the faces of countless. SURPRISE! The room flickers back into life, I hear music. So perfect. What has happened to me?

I awake with my face laid on a delicate cotton pillow, intricately laced and pleated. The bed is of the softest silk, wrapped around my waist. The room is creamy white, with coffee patterning on opposite walls, pure and perfect. Turning over, I see the beautiful face of my wife, sleeping in a peaceful dream. Walking, I look around the massive house, drawing up information. I look out the window, the Leaning tower of Piza sits awkward and proud as little as 200ft away. Were did I go right? So perfect, What has happened to me?

And back to my original, back to my ordinary. I stare at the opposite wall, scrawled with words and phrases from songs and poems. My hair hangs in my eyes as I re-create another masterpiece by James Horner on my keyboard. My green eyes flash as I laugh at the oxymoron of me hammering the keys harder into the most delicate music. This is my life, the hot and cold, the pleasant and the not so. My life. What will happen to me?