Can one be rid of dreams?
We want to get up in the morning and say, “I live in the best country in the world.”
There’s only one thing between us and that dream: Politicians.
This morning in the wee hours (because that’s when we usually have to wee), a male voice told me in a dream, “Everyone has a chip. They’re put into cereal boxes. Once you ingest one, you are assigned a number and the politicians will always know where you are.”
There was a superhero in a mask, too. If I remember why he was there, I’ll let you know.
My first thought upon awakening? “What the hell just happened?”
If I find this guy, he might have some answers for me:
This evening, I was waylaid at a stop sign, waiting for an opening, when a motorcycle whizzed by me at 50 miles per hour. A woman sat behind a man who was busy driving it. She was wearing a tank top “covered” by a sheer shirt — and she held a cell phone in one hand while texting with the other.
THAT, I wished was a dream because dreams don’t have to make sense.
I wonder how many cereal boxes she’s opened in the past few years?