Journal, August 7th …

Truth? I’ve never kept a journal before … never felt that I needed to. Journals are a “poor man’s therapy,” right? A search for personal enlightenment boundaried by paper and cardboard. Journals are for those sad souls who need an imaginary friend to help straighten out their lives while at the same time building bulwarks against reality.

That’s so not me.

I’m a pretty normal guy. Level-headed, logical, pragmatic. I have a job which pays me more than it should, a small but comfortable home by the lake and a circle of people that I occasionally like to hang out with. I’ve money in the bank, a good truck, nice clothes, and a couple of puppies at home who keep me humble. About as close to a perfect life as can be.

Until the dreams started.

Yeah, let’s call them “dreams.” I don’t know what else to call them … okay, maybe a better description is “stories” because I seem to watch them from a third-person perspective.  Yeah, stories … that works. Usually just snippets, but incredibly detailed, implausibly …

Real.

So real that I’m starting to question the level-headed, logical, pragmatic Me. Realities are blurring. I’m sometimes confused as to which life is the more authentic.

A friend had gifted me with an antique (so she said) blank book a few years ago, so to keep perspective … to defend against the encroaching crazy … I’ll use it to keep track of my memories the stories. I don’t know how best to tell them apart, so I’ve settled on calling them “chapters” … like a book. Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, etc.  (Ed. note:  You can find the latest in the menu above.)

That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? Record your dreams and you stay in control?