The Furor is Burning Itself Out

A couple morning ago, after I woke up and lingered in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, and checking for the first sign of daylight through the blinds, I had a peaceful feeling left over from a dream. In the dream I had been in my hometown and had visited a coffee shop run by a women's collective of some kind. I went inside the shop and bought some coffee. It was pleasant. I didn't feel out of place, as I always do now in such places, due to the overt politics that is pushed in my face, that tells me that I personally am what's wrong with the world. Instead it was just a coffee shop.

I miss those days. In the peacefulness of the morning, I wondered how long it would take to get back to something like that. For some reason the dream has left me feeling like the fever of the furor in America had already broken. Perhaps I'm imagining it, but I have this sudden sense as if the momentum of the rage is now retreating, like a deflating balloon.  It could never be sustained and now it is burning itself out.