Last night I had a nightmare that was composed of different scenes from movies I watched on Netflix just a few hours earlier. I watched a documentary called The Revisionaries, about the Texas School Board and their textbook standards, followed by Halo 4: Forward Unto Dawn, and then The Substitute with Tom Berenger as a mercenary soldier turned substitute teacher to go after a thug student who kneecapped the merc's girlfriend.

My nightmare was from the point of view of a victim of theft and robbery. I woke up still thinking my car was stolen and had to actually tell myself verbally that it was just a dream.

The movie clips were chosen by my brain for visual references to the emotional concoction my brain created as it achieved chemical homeostasis in my sleep. That's how dreams seem to operate. It might be that when we sleep, our brains releases excess chemicals stored up that were not used during the course of waking life. Most of us are lucky to be in a state of sleep torpor during dream time, while others unfortunately sleepwalk or flail about during their dreams. Most of us have seen the YouTube video of the dog running in his sleep.

When the brain chemicals are released in our sleep, they are released in an uncontrolled fashion, starting a bizarre combination of brain activity. This bizarre brain activity defies logic and defies our memories of the laws of physics to which we are so accustomed. Sometimes they inspire new inventions, but mine are mostly false emotions that last throughout the following day of victimhood. Being robbed, chased and beaten. Finding my car missing from its parking spot and not knowing if I just forgot where I parked it or it was stolen.

Even now as I write this I know it was just a dream, but the horrible sinking feeling from the false experience stirs again. Today I will defy this falsely created fear and go experience reality in places that closely resemble those of my nightmares. Reality should break the hold my nightmares create. Once the spell is broken by the experience of reality,

Roger's End

Michelle answered the phone. It was a coroner's office from another state. They called to inform her that her son's body was found. She hadn't heard from him in over a year. She sighed and said "so how does this work? Can you cremate the body?" Michelle's husband, Hank, lowered the newspaper for a glance across the kitchen table. Michelle continued on the phone: "Uh-huh...uh-huh...we ain't claiming the body so you do what you want." Hank turned a couple of pages and Michelle looked at him without turning her head while she was on the phone. The sound of rustling newspaper was Hank's passive-aggressiveness. Michelle's hair was an emotional weather-vane for Hank, it became rather large on days when she was most sensitive to the slightest of nostril exhales. "What did you say!?"..."I didn't say anything.". Michelle mastered the shrillness and inflection of her voice to affect some of the most entertaining contortions in Hank's face and body. It was a cold war. Hank decided today he was not going to shave.

Michelle put the phone down. "Did you hear? Roger finally did it. He's gone! She began to cry. Not from anguish, but from relief. Hank put the paper down and sighed "no more worries, no more suffering." Michelle spent the afternoon calling everyone with with the news. A life-long cloud had lifted. Everyone seemed lighter. No more dark clouds on the horizon in anticipation of Thanksgiving or Christmas. No more Roger to darken ever room with his sour, sullen silence. Now people didn't have to avoid looking in certain directions at gatherings. They had years before stopped trying to engage him in their conversations. His sisters were overjoyed at the prospect of larger shares of the family trust fund. One of them told a friend "Yeah, we got tired of watching him sitting around feeling sorry for himself all the time so we just ignored him hoping he would stop feeling that way."

The family met with the lawyers and the proper adjustments were made to the trust. The extra money was enough for the sisters to each get new cars. Michelle got a boob job, Hank bought some golf clubs and everyone lived happily ever after. Life goes on.

Dear Current Resident

Matt one day was tired of all the junk mail, but he never received any other kind of mail. He knew everyone else was sick and tired of the junk mail. Even the mail carrier was fed up, especially because advertising inserts that once upon a time were found in newspapers are now found in our mail boxes. When he can, the mail carrier on one route finds a nice shelf to plop down the inserts instead of shoving then into the slots, but he's gotta get rid of them, ya know? They leave his hands a shiny gray at the end of the day! Matt, who was not a mail carrier, one day so fed up, decided to have his name legally changed to Current Resident.

The judge laughed and shook his head saying "All right son, but you be careful because you will be inundated with massive amounts of mail. It suddenly occurred to Current Resident (formerly Matt) that he was doing a huge favor to everyone else by informing the postal services of the new proper mailing address of Current Resident. He suddenly found himself with tens of thousands of credit card applications and millions upon millions of dollars in credit. The coupons and crazy deals piled to the ceiling.

Current Resident saved so much money he built a warehouse and began to stack the tens of thousands of coupon purchased bottles of detergent until it got so bad he had to invest in huge tanks for the liquids.

Meanwhile poor old Mrs Eddleson down the street wasn't getting any mail at all anymore. Not even a coupon. She thought something happened to the mail carrier. For a long time she thought he was sick. Then she saw him walk by across the street. She was furious but couldn't bring herself to get out of her chair and shuffle to the door. He was gone in a flash. Nothing for poor old Mrs. Eddleson again today. Her withered trembling hands had enough strength and determination to reach for the old plastic grocery bag. Cracker crumbs fell out over her collar and some landed in here hair as she strained to pull the bag over her own head.

The mail wouldn't pile up on her porch. There would be no indication throughout the remaining days of summer and fall that anything was wrong because her bills were paid automatically and her Social Security check was direct deposited. Occasionally a rare breeze would waft the stench across the neighboring yards but nobody could find the source. Her neighbors got together and decided to take care of her lawn for her shortly after she had her stroke a few years back. Nobody really saw her. After a while they thought she was moved to a home somewhere.

The last sign before the end of the road.

The last sign reads "was it worth it?" Was what worth it? Life! All the crap you accumulated over the years! All of the toil day-in-and-day-out! Mowing the friggin' lawn!.

When you reach the last turn before the end of the road, you have to wonder if everything you did was for a purpose. I never married and have no children and my forty-ninth birthday is fast approaching. I'm not expecting to live much longer anyway because my body is unspeakably mis-shapen and racked with pain from decades of overindulgence, lethargy and generally dysfunctional genes that disqualify me for natural selection on the grounds of hair loss, psoriasis, acne, metabolism, disproportionately short legs-to-torso ratio, arthritis and a small penis.

My adopted mother is expected live well beyond a hundred years. She is in her seventies and still plays tennis. I expect her to outlive me by at least twenty years. I wonder what her motivation is? I can't seem to find any motivation at all to continue. She must get something out of life, I don't know what. Every step I take every minute of the day is uphill for me.

When you reach the point in your life where you can see the end, you contemplate all the things you did while you were alive and whether or not it got you anywhere. To me it seems like it was all a huge waste of time.

I feel good occasionally when something I post on Facebook or Google+ gets accolades in the form of likes or pluses. Those are the only venues upon which I can rest my validation anymore. Silent anonymous mouse-clicks in my favor might as well be a nudge from someone next to me in bed, I wouldn't know the difference, but I know it's not enough to cause me to flail about in ecstasy.

For days I sit in my silent apartment trying to think of something, anything! I'm stuck in a meditation loop. The noises around me, the droning of the refrigerator, the birds, the traffic, echo through the dark chasm of my mind, but there is an undertone of ever-present anxiety. Something is wrong. I'm forgetting something. I don't hear the approaching footsteps of the drill instructor, there is none, but nevertheless the expectation remains. The shadows of moving police officers in full armor are never cast across my closed window shades. No battering ram and flash-bang grenades for me. At least that would be some form of recognition if anything I ever did mattered to anyone at all.

I could read news but it's so trite.Same with the radio.  Talk-radio is a broken record.More people making the same mistakes over and over again. Every few years or so the same topics are raised over and over: Child discipline, banning one thing or legalizing another, should there be a summer break from school, school lunch nutrition, violence and video games, on and on.

My feet and knees hurt when I stand, my butt hurts when I sit, my back hurts when I lie down. Alcohol makes me sick more than it makes me drunk. Pills don't work. I would leave the apartment and go outside for a while, if I had a reason strong enough to overwhelm my anxiety.