What Dreams May Come

Sometimes I miss forts.

I couldn’t sleep last night. I was in bed by 11 and stared at my ceiling until 3. The heat was blasting through the vents. And I’m not a fan of sleeping in a sauna. So I opened a window. I live at a busy intersection. It was lose-lose.

At one point, I swear Rob Thomas started whispering in my ear: “She says, ‘Baby, it’s 3 a.m., I must be lonely….’”

Eventually I fell asleep. But didn’t really notice. Because my dream began with me lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

I thought I was still awake when I heard someone unlocking my front door. When the light in my living room turned on. I didn’t realize that I was dreaming when I heard a boy collapse on my couch, exhale emphatically, and turn on the TV.

I went out to meet him in my pajamas, joining him on the couch in the middle of the night as he recapped his stressful day. Apparently my dad had helped him move some sort of gear from one venue to another. Something about a downtown hotel.

I then said goodnight and let him set up a makeshift bed on the hardwood floor as I headed back to bed.

When I did wake from this quasi-reverie, all that remained with me felt real. Normal, even. I half-expected to find a dirty cereal bowl in my sink this morning.

I need sleep. Real sleep. Maybe even dreamless sleep.

I inherited the crazy dreams from my mom. I only hope that one day my subconscious will help me get a book deal.

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