Nothing New Blues in Dreams And Nightmares

There was the one I was at some sort of party. It was all done up like Halloween. I had to go back up the stairs to return to my cell but I had an alcoholic beverage and had to down it before I went back in. I wanted a Sunkist but I had to drink it there too. But time is wasting. C’mon now. Get going.

Then there was that one I was in the OLD neighborhood (1989) and wandering around. I eventually was walking down where the junior high used to be. Walking, I had to get back. Time was running out.

Another one was a commissary. Entered one at a time through a metal detector. Walked around with a designated shopping cart as guards watched on. Hurry up now…they just closed. The doors are locking, you’re being left behind. Hurry now! Time has ran out!

And don’t get me started in the one where we were all in a circular building and a riot broke out.

All that sense of urgency built up in my mind like a pressure cooker.

Not sure if I should have posted this under the jail book or not.

I haven’t dreamed (or remembered them at least) since getting out. It’s something I just noticed. Subconsciously I think I’m trying to remind myself of the all the bullshit I had to deal with and that it was drinking what put me there.

I’m not the silver tongued snake I thought I was. There was no more talking left to do. Only judgement. No charm, wit and quick smile to the judge. Reading off the dates of the three pee tests I didn’t bother calling about, the relapse and avoiding the outpatient requirements. Avert those eye, can’t look at the date that awaits.

Knowing that I gave up. I didn’t care. Case in point, the big deal about just cleaning my bedroom. There were years worth of junk just laying around. The bed was completely covered in books, games, etc. It was used as an additional table. “I need to clean that up but eh, who cares. Oh woe is me.” I put my own ass on the back burner. Looks like it caught fire.

I was being an arrogant, very selfish douchebag. A lot of time was wasted doing that. How long? Too long.

Finding out I’m not bulletproof may have been the best thing to happen in my life.