I’m Always Trying to Get Shit Done in my Dreams

The only time when absolutely no part of me is wishing I was sitting quietly on a couch or taking a little nap, is in my dreams.

In my dreams, I’m courageous and working like hell to figure out what the fuck is going on. I’ll do anything to make things normal again.

I have run around my neighborhood with my cousin’s rabbit while painting a picture. I’ve refused to eat the raw chicken and soap served by my second grade teacher, then jumped out the window as a sensible escape. I’ve struggled to decipher the Japanese coming from the unknown lady who took a cyanide pill in my kitchen (last night’s dream).

In my dreams, I’m like Brody from Homeland. Nothing makes sense and the world has turned bizarro. Like Brody, I’m running ten miles a day, brushing up on my special forces skills and desperately searching for a solution.

I admire the man I am in my dreams.

He’s been pushed to the brink by strange colors, sounds and concepts. He tries to run and he’s suddenly in quicksand. He tries to kiss his wife and he’s touching tongues with Uncle Jay.

Everyone else in his world is strangely indifferent and neutral but he is high-def, working overtime to get back to where he once belonged.