I’ve been having some weird dreams. Unrelated, scrambled scenarios with no basis in reality, but last night’s dream fits into today’s onslaught of chaos.
I was in a small basement filled with people clustered around a table. Donald Trump was there. Yeah, I had a dream about Donald Trump. Upside, Barack Obama sat to his right. The room was packed.
And EVERYBODY was smoking cigarettes because Trump wanted it. Everybody, but me.
I couldn’t understand why they conformed to something so bad and against their best interests. I could barely see through the cloud of toxin, but they blindly puffed away. I started hacking. Somebody told me to stop, it was rude and insulting to the president. Of course, that made cough even more and feint retching. They made me leave the room.
I woke up and tried to put some meaning behind the dream, and for once, I could.
Donald Trump is cancer, a slow, malignant tumor in the heart of America. He has fed off the teat of discourse, milking it for his personal gain, sucking away at the morality of his office while dolling out promises to his like-minded followers. Just like cancer, his effects will be long-lasting and potentially irreversible.
Without treatment, his disease is spreading. The Republicans smoke their cigarettes ignoring the illness of nepotistic, good-ole-boy politics that engulfs Trump’s every move.
And the cancer spreads.
Hate crimes are increasing, the divide is deepening, our government is broken. How much longer are the poor and middle class going to shoulder this country’s burden?
I wish I would have had a different dream. Another one about not being able to find a bed when all I wanted to do was sleep. Come to think of it, maybe those dreams did make sense. To be able to fall asleep and wake up when Trump is gone… wouldn’t that be bliss?