When Your Dreams Come True and Ruin the Comfort of Your Nightmare

Imagine that. I finally get what I thought I wanted and instead of shivering with the bumps of contentment and victory — I am currently staging my exit and quivering with sorrow as I stare at my surroundings with disbelief.

The gadgets on my desk demand a specific allegiance to the documents I signed days earlier — that are supposed to promise my dedication to lists of requirements that looked perfect on the screen when we first met.

But, now, it’s as if I reverted back to a time that I swore would never threaten me again. The words falling out of my mouth don’t match the manuscript that I practiced with reformed precision not too long ago.

I sound crazy and feel even crazier.

The gorgeous keyboard was already prepped for the report that I am now curating with high speed. If I get caught — there will be a price for this mental defection. This isn’t a prison designed by willing captors — this is a hell of my own making.

This is exactly what happens when your dreams come true and ruin the comfort of your nightmare.

You see, I was actually safer and happier during the time when my disposition was beyond comfort. I was firmly validated as the victim of circumstances beyond my control.

The talented writer who should be riding the waves of success and controlling the universe from a station of creative fluidity. The summer was a detailed run-through of how menacing the mind can be — when you are without the filters that end up saving the time and energy you spend in a bubble of sweltering dismay.

I enjoy the chaos of wonder and disengagement. I have dwelled far too long in the cave of emotional dismemberment. Every time the light flickers in — I sink deeper into the abyss because it’s really the only home I’ve ever known.

It was the purposefully-annoying edit tests. The overly-long job postings and application process. The annoyance with the state of journalism as my social media feeds consistently prove that I belong nowhere. I have nothing to offer and no organization can touch that button that activates my soul in ways that promise to rejuvenate me accordingly.

I want what I haven’t got and when I get it — it stinks so bad that I am forced to vengefully throw it back.

So, here I am — wishing with all my heart that the bad old days would return to me. I am already feeling the misery of defeat overtake the mountain of good that this new opportunity is trying to force down my throat.

I don’t even want to taste it. The fear of lust and desire could possibly sway me but I have lived with myself long enough to know that I am already on the freeway. I have no idea where I am headed and at this point — I honestly don’t need navigation to direct me back to that familiar place.

I will continue to perform for the invisible cameras and binge on the loyalty and hope of my new co-workers who are so sure that I am energetically drafting up a piece for review. They are not entirely wrong — except — I am certain this isn’t what they have in mind.

When that time comes — I will flawlessly make my exit — like I have done before and breathe a sigh of relief as the fresh air breezes past me and urges my need to increase the pace.

There are no dreams without nightmares.

There is only what you want. The wanting and the waiting. The wanting and the knowing. The wanting and the judging. The wanting and the paralyzing thought that creeps up every time — you are given the product of your visions.

You really have no fucking idea what you want. That’s the nightmare.

And it’s back.

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