The home of my dreams terrifies me. Once or twice a week, I look over to see water seeping through the walls, or obscured recesses leading to hidden chambers, wiring and antiquated electronics left unexplained by the previous owners. The roof leaks, and the pristine floors we spent so long preparing for, creak underneath our feet to be enjoyed by another family, since, inexplicably, we are leaving. I don't know why I bother going to sleep at all.
At least I'm not dreaming of the songwriter's you, nameless regrets that seem more and more childish the older I get. I quit my job recently, a dream job that turned sour seemingly overnight. The person who hired me fired when I reported an interaction with my assistant, and there isn't any healing anymore, just an endless cycle of justice, beneath the faintest veneer of perfume, like saying goodbye to an embalmed loved one.
So, I am looking for the next new quest, and one of the things that always frightened me ten years ago was that my presence on the internet would prevent me from professional advancement. Google my name and TEQUILA CON or (comment) ORGY and, gah, I might as well eschew the ducks.
Nothing now. I can't type my name and any number of identifying (dis)qualifiers and be found. I am free and clear.
Of course, that also means that ten years of effort are no more real than the broken foundation or leaky roof of a somnial abode.
I never existed. I never was.