Some sense from this morning's dreaming.

In the morning he awoke!... suddenly; transfixed on a vivid dream (one for which he hesitated to label a nightmare) about the deprivation wrought by his mother's inevitable descent into senility; about the consequent loneliness which would render him truly disabled. He discarded the thing that drew metaphor as he lie there only half conscious - brought into life by this same thing that drew his possible future into his present moments. It was a warm summer's morning; too warm for a quilt which, for lack of a bed sheet, he had draped over his soon-to-be middle-aged but otherwise well-fed frame. Time, after only three and a half hours of sleep, to get up. Time to peer at his computer to watch the unfolding kaleidoscope of his own creation; that prism of infinite beauty, of infinite strangeness that he at least thought was infinitely beautiful and strange.

He hesitantly embraced his dream for he had been taught by experience not to respond to the echoes of promises long ago formed. These promises - the ones that similar dreams said would boldly rescue him from his inevitability - contort his life into anathema. In time, and by the actions of intent, these promises would evolve: evolve to something that might save him from his inevitability; evolve to something which might at least distract him long enough perhaps for him to remain ignorant of how screwed up his life had become before inevitability would wash his cares for life away; evolve to reveal to him the banality of the pursuit for distraction; evolve in time to become that which, for want of his childhood comfort - a comfort that could have sprung from an accident in late childhood - he desperately avoided; evolve to have no meaning beyond a beautiful and strange anathema: something he foresees making no discernible difference at all to his inevitability.

Long since become a man in at least the physical sense, his mind was awash with the cynical intent of too many other men (and perhaps a few women). Perhaps some of these individuals had only a wish for his happiness as their intent; but apart from his mother (and his father - he hesitates to use the word "perhaps" because it is at least his father as much as it is his mother), one simply cannot lift this nature from their actions. His kaleidoscope still flashes its images of infinite beauty in his head; images which he still feels compelled to form sentences with and implement code on honour of. His mind is still seeing promises; promises without delivery; promises that an outwardly capricious though inwardly patient world of razor sharp intent might, he reckons, want him to make to himself as a child. The promises he observes now feed a desire to remake his world - a world of hedonism; of compulsory consumerism; of the paradox of inescapable slavery expected of him from the society in which he exists. He wants his world to become a world of silence without loneliness; of an individual's freedom to have his command to "go away" be respected. As a child, these promises were made to him (are made to children still) because of the power they have to enslave. He hadn't grasped the cudgel of family life - perhaps he was too scared; perhaps he understood too much of the promises' origin - so perhaps society's promises were over-made to him. He almost feels resigned to this as the natural order of society. He thinks the use of the word "almost" is an important distinction to make as to the state of his mind on the matter.

Quids are played without the pro quo's that he hesitates to think he is entitled to because he questions whether he has truly offered anything to the society in which he exists. Such an uncertainty as whether his quid deserves a pro quo might be the tool a society uses to get him to deliver more and expect less in return. He examines his conscience, and comes to the conclusion as a 37 year old man, that he has tried his best.

He is now, perhaps, almost willing to accept an hypothesis that the accident from his late childhood may have contributed significantly to the current circumstances. Even with the certainty that tales of one Kurt Friedrich Gödel gave him, his work still needs to be... complete. What better way to complete this work than without the distractions of societal expectation? Why now, he asks himself, reclined in his comfy chair of philosophical lugubriousness that his disability pension pays for, would he want to sacrifice these circumstances for even an hour per week of part-time telework? Why now when society might pay for his work's completion? Why, indeed, would he want to sacrifice his pension for the promise to see the wealth that the completion of his work could render unto him?

He reacquaints himself to his philosophy about promises.

He completes his blog entry, wishing the world would go away, but perhaps is almost resigned to the probable inevitability that it might not do this just yet. Maybe his resignation is, in a way, an attempt to fend off the wolf of loneliness at his door. This man hopes that inevitabilities unfold in their appropriate sequence and through appropriate circumstance.