A nightmare.

I awaken. In the middle of the night. Either laughing. Or crying. Sometimes in a state of high anxiety. Strange, isn’t it? I must tell my psychotherapist. Such a wide range of emotion. Being experienced in my sleep. I’m imagining. That I’ve become a novelist. Writing masterful fiction. A preposterous story. Yet it seems so real. The main character in my novel is both hilariously funny and very, very scary. A rich business tycoon. With a narcissistic personality. A shrewd manipulator. Turned politician. A pathological liar, too. Through a weird series of events, he becomes the president of the United States of America.  And that’s where the awful phase of my recurring dream begins. I wake up. Trembling. Terror stricken. And worst of all. I’m unable to convince myself. That it’s all fantasy. That it ain’t real. Little wonder. That I need to see a psychotherapist.  It’s a nightmare. That won’t go away. --Jim Broede