Lucid

Two nights ago I had my first lucid dream in what must have been at least ten years, if not more. I would have appreciated one of the wet variety, but who am I to look a multicolored gift horse in its clay-toothed, fiery mouth?

It was, I thought, as though I were again a youth -- the world was my oyster, and I could manipulate it to my will (the world, not oysters).

Unfortunately, I think I dropped the ball*. Back in the day, blesed by the dream gods with such a welcome vision, I'd have pulled out a machine gun and blasted all my dream companions to smithereens (what can I say, I played a lot of Contra), but here all I could do -- despite knowing I was granted lucid dream carte blanche -- was pull off an old lady's pillbox hat and run away, and lustily glance at the bussom of a(n imagined) co-worker.

Damn you, conscience! It was as though I were a convict given clemency after years of solitude, only to discover that all my wants and creativity had been crushed by

(a truck)

the cruel, unmerciful weight of time.

I feel old.

* Blame the ball. Always blame the ball. Always blame the synthetic, non-leather ball.