Every day I wake up remembering yesterday–not the recent one that still existed when I went to bed, but the more distant variety that died years ago.

I journey backwards inside my head, however far back I need to go, to get back to that place in time when my goals were clearly articulated and yet still seemed plausible. There in my waking minute—those magic moments of morning when old dreams are malleable to a new day—mistakes are reversible. I find hope then, pure and unadulterated, as it looked before it went to cower in the closet, before vague promises that I could be anything fell silent.

I miss those promises, laughable as they seem now in a world that rewards creative thoughts only when the thinker commits them to the status quo. Even if they only come out at night, I need those promises: “You will succeed at whatever you do.”

But each morning it’s the same, the way they break again. The clock awakens before me and sword fights with my fantasies. It takes a few moments of being awake before reality kicks in, like Klonopin cutting off Adderall. Then the cold air outside my blanket touches all my uncovered parts, startles hope like an icicle to the testicles, sends all my American dreams fleeing for cover—back to wherever they hide while I’m wake.