Give Us This Day Our Daily Dread

Give us this day our daily dread.

And forgive us our trepanning

For these holes in our head

Allow us to see and breathe.

Lead us not into tomorrow

For today is all we can handle.

Though ragged twine binds the present

It is more practical than super glue

As knots can be untied with nimble fingers

And string quartets perform with more charm than string theory

As any guitarist worth his assault can agree —

Spare strings can save a solo.

So take a break from the dread

Break bread and make peace with your dread diet

Make lemonade with your losses

And remember this:

You are never more than one hug away from having a great day.

I read the post from Elad Nehorai, The Deeper Reason Democrats Lost

They explain how life changed after Covid. “The illusion had been broken, and a sort of existential dread haunted them.”

“Traditional media only covers the drama, not the creeping dread that drives people under their covers to escape it. For those with children, the weight is unavoidable: planning futures for worsening realities, worrying about their kids’ safety in a hotter, more volatile world.”

They go in to explain, ”Existential dread and fear are not something easily measured nor easily reported. They do not grab headlines and they do not seem nearly as exciting as the daily drama the news covers. They don’t fit the social media algorithm because they don’t create engagement: they don’t make us angry or happy, they just depress us and make us want to get under the covers.

It’s also hard to measure people checking out. What we see in the news, what we see on social media, what we see just in general as humans is what people are doing, not what they are stepping away from. This creates a false sense that whatever is occurring is the story. And in a moment like this, that’s dangerous.”

This dread, like bread, comes sliced or unsliced. You can get it in paper or plastic. Dread has no pride. It plays with demons, devils and your children. It kisses you in the morning. His dread tucks you in bed at night, tucks you so damned tight — you can’t move. You can barely breathe. Sleep happens, but in the dark, nightmares are more frequent. When you wake up, you are exhausted. It’s like you exhausted all your possibilities in the dream world, and now you are left alone with the residual dread.

If you allow your mind to run wild, you find yourself blindly running with scissors, bumping into God knows what in the dark. The dark is crowded with phantoms. Your scissors meet the blunt opposition of someone’s soft underbelly. Their blades plunge into your resistance. You feel helpless. Hopeless.

Dread is all around us. It is the music we listen to. All dread radio. You cannot escape its icy clutches. It walks your children to school. They are always late. Teachers whisper as you pass them in the hallway. You are almost 67, but in this dream, you are 16, and your pants nowhere to be found.

All eyes are on you. Not only on you, but inside you too. These eyes inside roll around, pushing against each other, jostling to get a better look. “I can’t see”, they say. “I can’t see. Move! Lift me up so I can see.”

How did these all these eyes get inside you? Did you invite them in, like the vampire at your door? These eyes are hungry. They want what all eyes want—to see. These eyes feel the dread, but they can’t see it. The dread they know is almost a friend. I say the word friend, because of their long time closeness, but please understand dear reader, this dread is not your friend.

This dread is an influencer from Hell. This dread is a time suck. His dread is a vampire baby sucking on your nipples, until you are bloodless, barren, a jumble of bones, loose skin, and in your final moments, the dread leaves you but one thing.

Your thoughts. And they wonder why you didn’t vote.

I know why you didn’t vote.

You couldn’t breathe.