My Sense of Humor is Broken

I woke up earlier this week in an odd mood.  Maybe I'd dreamed something that bothered me, or maybe it wasn't a dream that was bothering me, but some other subconscious inclusion that had festered long enough in the gray matter and had forced itself to the surface.  I couldn't remember dreaming and whatever the thought was, given the date of October 16th, it was between new and nine years old.  I had a sense of impending doom, existential angst, fear of failure, fear of success. And nine years is a lot of thoughts.

I ate two wiener wurstchen and finished my coffee.

I went for a walk.

It didn't go away.

I took a nap, calling upon my ability to force vivid dreams on my way in to the inner world.  The dreams were fast and furious.  I woke an hour later and couldn't remember any of them.  I just knew they were good ones.

Off to the Cafe.  Coffee.  Reading.  People watching.  I opened a new page in the notebook.  I scribbled furiously.  I came up with a poem.  It wasn't very good.  I went for another walk.

It's three days later.  I'm okay, but my sense of humor is broken.  I laugh at my toilet every time I flush it.  Maybe it's symbolic.