Woke up in a sweat this morning, afraid to open my eyes. Afraid that I would wake up in the same place I laid down last night and know that this hasn’t been a long random dream.

If it was all a dream I would search for meaning. I’d wonder if it was a foreshadowing. Then I’d settle on the conclusion that it was meant to show me how much I love my home, as it was. That it was confirmation of my priorities, constant my whole life: family, friends, Home (this coda imbedded in my very genes).

I opened my eyes and wasn’t quite sure where I was, then I recognized these hotel room curtains and the blinking smoke detector over my head and I knew that none of it was a dream. This shit is real. Thirty is the new forty, orange is the new black, and this is the new norm. WTF? Here is the truth: Things are what they are. Forty is not thirty, orange is not black, and this is not “normal.”

We arrived at our destination last night. Unfamiliar everything. Unfamiliar highways to other unfamiliar highways. Unfamiliar streets with unfamiliar names. Unfamiliar faces, places, trees, birds. All under a big wide blanket of unfamiliar sky. I hate it. Probably wouldn’t if I was just passing through, but today I hate it all. Every unfamiliar blade of grass.

I hate that I have to try to like it. I hate even more that I have to pretend to like it, have to pretend to be excited, have to work on my attitude. I’m fucking tired. That’s what I am. I don’t have any energy reserved to pretend or do emotional gymnastics. I will rally for my child’s sake but other than that, today I honestly don’t care.  I’m just fucking tired and I want to go home. Apparently 54 is the new 5.

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“And you may ask yourself                                       What is that beautiful house?
And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go to?
And you may ask yourself
Am I right? Am I wrong?
And you may say yourself, “My God! What have I done?”