Two more coming

I want to talk about Donald Trump and his Winter Dream. Donald’s life isn’t going well. Over the weekend, he had yet another meltdown. He ranted, and he raved about everything. He accused Jack Smith of “prosecutorial misconduct.” He really did that!

He also claimed the sole purpose of his indictments is to “interfere and disturb my run for the White House.” The only “disturbance” I see here is Donald’s brain. And he even acknowledged more indictments were coming: “Two more coming, I guess?”

Labeling his enemies again as “thugs and lowlifes,” Trump said the American people were on his side. No, they’re not. But here’s the thing. Trump’s anger is all coming from the reality that his dream is being disturbed. His winter dream.

We all have hopes and dreams. Donald Trump’s dream is winter-frosted and hovers in his brain, refusing to leave. It plagues him, and he might know at some level it is, after all, just a dream.

The dream Donald Trump has is of a specific event. And that event would occur on January 20 (or January 21 if the 20th fell on a Sunday.) Yes, this event takes place in the heart of Winter, sometimes with snow mists falling, seen by the world, either in person or on television.

It is Inauguration Day. Trump wants that day again. He wants the bells to ring for HIM, the applause to flow outward for HIM, the person being inaugurated to be named Donald. It’s not going to happen. And I do believe somewhere, buried deep within his stream of consciousness, Donald Trump knows that the dream is just that — only a fantasy, only a dream.

I imagine Trump wants his winter dream so badly he can taste it. And that day is indeed a wonderful day. It certainly was for us when the last inauguration day welcomed a great man to be the new President, President Biden.

But Trump cannot get it out of his mind. It tantalizes him. He wants it SO VERY badly. He wants his winter wish fulfilled. And every time — every time yet another indictment falls, he is that much further away from getting it.

Donald Trump is trapped in the beauty of his winter dream, of his very vivid imagination, still yearning for applause that will never come, of power that will never be his, of a dream that’s as lost to him now as ever as it could be.