its been a very long time since i actually remember any of my dreams, and i am referring to the literal ones that you get when your are no longer cognizant of your surrondings and your mind is in a locked stasis for that time period, running on a tape track that is recorded by often misrepresented pieces of reality. not those airy fairy ones 'ooh i wish...' and all that whatever. i might be seeing a cycle here, because some of these dreams aren't what is normally perceived as normal. and i only get stuff like that when time shapeshift from an indefinitive blah to a towering tenebrous imprisonment, taking your emotions hostage. and times are like these, indeed. and yesterday's was fit for some cultic heretic japanese horror movie.
i sat in a room in a chair conversing with someone that i knew. the details of this room was not revealed to me through my senses because my attention was fixated at this person, seated opposite me, also in a chair. above him was a large tackboard impaled with uncountable notes, all written in either blue ink pen or black bic pen scrawls, and they were angry and violent scrawls. i could not read the words on those notes as they were too small for my eyes, and besides i was focused on this person. the conversation started off inaudibly, and strangely enough, i was constantly drifting to and fro from the first person view (myself) to a third person view (voyeuristic observation) throughout the dream. the conversation became audible only for a few lines.
"So you want to recieve the same powers as I have?"
"Yes."
"Then I would have to transfer my power to you by possession."
that person i was conversing with was dressed in a smart black shirt and a neatly pressed pants with nice black leather shoes. i would not think that person would look out of place if casted in matrix:reloaded. immediately, a hand shot out from that person and landed gently at the left side of my head. i do not know how in the world did i manage to generate the sensation i got in the next few seconds after that, but my vision in that dream became severly distorted, and i felt nothing short of an electric charge rocketing around the sides of the skull and frying my every synapses. i actually felt pain in a dream, would u believe it. whats more incredulous is that suddenly, a voice inside of me (in that dream) told me to stop because it was wrong. and i responed to that cry, by crying out (in that dream) to that person to stop it because what was being done was evil. the hand was withdrawn, the person made some disappointed remark, and i opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.
i couldn't frame an explanation for yesterday's mindtrip. it was so bloody real and it actually had an element of pain in it, something that never ever once occured in my previous experiences. i think it might not seem frightening for all of you but it was real enough for me to be afraid. and i am not sure whether to feel like a fool, or to be afraid of what it might represent or tell, and also, whether to be afraid of that person i dreamed of...
enervate, exit highland.
Things need not have happened to be true. Tales and dreams are the shadow truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot.
-- Dream
i find that it is a depressing thing to be ill. your mind swims and meanders across tortuous bends of distant dreams and memories that could have been true, or could have been a hoax. and this is especially so when you are all along sitting down somewhere with no contact with any sentient being whatsoever. and i find myself lecturing, myself.
What we are, we choose to be.
but i wished i knew what was in my mind when i made those choices. Re-visitations, hoping to bring some epiphany; but instead it only yielded obscenity and nothing more. i wished i was brave, able to stare straight back and smile. but no, all i got were tenebrous reminders of incongruity and incompetence.
Destinations are often a surprise to the destined.
but why can't we be happy with the destination? layers of 'what ifs' textured my mind until worn and worried tapestrys hung from the synapse. those intricate woven fabrics are labyrinths unto its own; no amount of copius and tedious deciphering could help answer questions. and thus everything was left hanging, crpyting entries left unsolved.
We make choices. No one else can live our lives for us. And we must confront and accept the consequences of our actions.
if only dragging yourself off the muddy floor could be that easy. i wish that "My Happiness" by Powderfinger could be my eternal soundtrack. i wish to be bathed in niveous light. i wish to be able to count the infinite amount of stars that light the obsidian canopy. i wish to lie on fields of the clearing and be soaked by the morning dew. i wish to sit on the white sun-baked sands and watch the tangerine fade away into dusk. i wish to be brave enough.
to feel.
enervate, exit highland.
what do you call a hundred white men with sticks chasing a black man?
the PGA.
enervate, exit highland.
whoever heard of someone getting sick on his birthday. bleaurgh. this sucks.
And when they sang the last lines of the song, "Happy birthday... to you...!" Holmes gave a gurgling sound, holding his hand to his chest. With eyes bluging and bloodshot he pitched forward into the birthday cake and never got up again.
enervate, exit highland.
Which Crispin Glover character are you?
Thin Man (Charlies Angels)
Which Crispin Glover character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
ha, this is rich...
enervate, exit highland.