I'm tired of worrying and fears come at me as though fired from a relentless machine gun and it's just too much to handle.
"Please God, let me have nice dreams," I think or mutter.
Sometimes I do.
Sarah and I dance on sandy beaches where it's never winter.
Our kids do crazy things in fascinating combinations which make me laugh.
Someone sticks fried chicken in the inside pockets of my blazer which I pull out during a presentation before Congress and munch on.
Mayor Floyd Adams and I pee on Congressman Jack Kingston in the Crystal Beer Parlor receiving a standing ovation from a huge crowd.
People I care about who are long dead arrive reminding me of things we did or show me things we meant to do but didn't ... so we work it out because they refuse to die until we do.
My Dad still asks, "How 'Bout them Dawgs?"
Grandma Carver continues to rub her fingers through my hair as I lay in her lap while she sings "The Old Rugged Cross."
It's wonderful nutty stuff that kicks reality's ass!
On the nights I don't dream ... it pisses me off.
I like dreaming.
Then I wake and hold Sarah tight and lay there separating fiction from fact ... grabbing what's real ... staring at the Palm Trees through the windows towards a rising sun ... I am thankful for another day of reality.
The love of my life swats my arm away from her belly.
The dogs and the cat jump on the bed anticipating her waking.
She stops swatting me and swats them.
It's too intense so I crawl out of bed and stumble to the outdoor shower to start daydreaming.
Because I am a believer.
Every little things gonna be alright.
