I had a nightmare last night. It was the real kind. The kind that holds onto you even when you wake up to an adorable little girl shoving a mint brownie in your face.
“Breakfast in bed, mommy!” she cries.
I wipe the sleep out of my eyes, but my head is still stuck in that house – with them.
Robin Williams died yesterday and most of the world who knows anything about popular culture began mourning.
I did not.
It was a strange feeling, not being sad because of the tragic death of a talented person. I was disturbed by my lack of horror at the news, but still couldn’t make myself feel anything.
It’s not that I don’t love his movies, or think he’s brilliant, or wish he’d not reached that level of sadness and depression. In fact, I immediately thought of his movie, “What Dreams May Come” where he travels through heaven and hell to save his wife who’s committed suicide.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that movie, the irony, and I couldn’t sleep last night.