Dreams are jerks. Really. One moment you’re hanging out with Tom Hiddleston, having the time of your (fake) life, and the next you’re snapped out of that happy falsity and into your cold, dark bedroom by a wailing alarm. Now you have to get up for work and pretend that your fake, sleep-dazed non-reality wasn’t way better than real life. Because it was.

Then you spend the rest of the day sitting at your desk wishing and (day) dreaming, and the time crawls by at a snail’s pace, inching, slimy and slow, across the clock in the bottom right corner of your bulky computer monitor. You ache to be back in bed, to relive that dream that was such perfection, so real in the moment that you couldn’t have separated it from reality. Inception-style. You also ache physically because the damn desk chair is so uncomfortable and why do you have to sit all freaking day.

Finally, you’re done with the adult stuff – the work and the cooking and the cleaning and the bill-paying. You can get back to the good stuff; crawl through that dark tunnel into Wonderland (or something similar) where life is grand and fun and that tea party literally never ends. When you finally get to roll back in to that soft, warm cocoon of blankets and shut your eyes, drifting away to the quiet hum of the refrigerator in the other room and the sound of rain on the shingles covering the roof, you slip into a dream.

But it’s never what you want, is it? Rarely can you revisit a previous dream. This time it’s nightmares and fear crawling up your spine and exhaustion as you run, run, run away. Why won’t Tom show up, Gas-Mask Samurai style, slicing away the demons and bringing you back to a dream you would never want to wake up from?

Cause dreams are jerks, that’s why. That’s the closest you’ll ever get to Tom (I guess you can substitute Cruise, if he’s your thing) and the good dreams are always backed by the bad, dripping black all over your colourful canvas.

That’s why.


Writer’s Block

I have Writer’s Block.

There, I said it. It’s all out in the open, nowhere to hide. Not that I’ve been able to hide from Writer’s Block.

I haven’t had a good idea in so long, and I can feel Writer’s Block looking over my shoulder, even now. Staring at every word I write on this blank white page and telling me it’s not good. And it’s not going to get better.

I sit here and wait for my Muse. She is kind, friendly and always knows what to say. But he showed up instead and is simply determined to make my life miserable. I finally have the time to sit and let the words flow, but before they can make it out of my brain, he crunches them with his heel, grinds them to dust on the floor.

Dreams of writing the next big novel get squashed when Writer’s Block is around. He’s like that relative that you just can’t seem to be rid of, while they eat all your food and drink all your beer and take over your house like it’s their own, making you feel like you’ll never be alone or happy again.

He makes me rush my work, like an overbearing boss who cares more about quantity than quality. Of course Writer’s Block would prefer I succeed at neither, but beggars can’t be choosers, and if I’m going to write, he’s at least going to make sure it’s bad. Make sure I know it, and everyone else does too.

Maybe one of these days, he’ll back off long enough for me to write something I can be proud of. Maybe he’ll get bored of me and move on to the next unsuspecting victim of his malicious schemes .

Then creativity will flow like the water in the ocean keeping with the magnetic pull of the moon, unable to resist its nature.

Until then, though, my unwelcome mind-guest will continue to keep my company. It must be better than being totally alone, forever.