Why do we let dreams effect us so much? Whether our slumbers leave us trembling from a blender hell-bent on making us into a people-smoothie or onewhere a masked stranger chases us down a dark alley, we still wake up with the same thought: that was too real. I have popped up in bed convinced that a spider was about to feast upon my face. I have flipped on the light at 3am ready to fight off the slimy demon that was trying to eat me like a tasty, meaty treat. But none of these dreams truly scare me like the ones about my family. I have dreamt that my niece was accidentally killed while tumbling down the stairs, I have woken up in a sweaty fit because we had accidentally buried my grandfather even though he wasn't really dead, and I have panicked in the wee hours of morning thinking that the love of my life was a zombie made of disentegrating hamburger.
Last night was the worst dream I've had while being married. Harry was leaving me. He was divorcing me. When I asked him "why?" He simply stated: "I want more than this." And, here's the worst part, I couldn't refute him. I knew he deserved better, so I sat down and cried. And woke up- and plastered myself to his sleeping form. Perhaps not the best idea in hindsight, but I woke him up and asked "are you happy?" He snored, rolled over, drooled a bit and said "yeah."
Good enough for me.