When I woke up, I rolled over and said, "so are we going to Antarctica?"
But now I really want to go. ;__;
Well, lately I've been forgotting my dreams, as well, so I haven't got much to report, anyway. But it'd been polite to, you know, welcome new members and all. Better late than never, right? So, welcome, weiland_daze!
Anyway, I'm glad we're still alive in here.
Post those dreams, people. Post those dreams.
I would, if only I'd remember anything else than vague bits and pieces and general feelings.
Do you like the new layout? I thought it'd be time to change to something different.
Shared_Dreams is nearly 3 years old! I think it'd be time to recruit some new dreamers in some point. I still love the idea and some dreams are fascinating to read.
Instead of grades for homeworks and exams, we received ratings. The worst news: I got an NC-17 on my Number Theory midterm exam.
I woke up.
I took NyQuil last night because I felt like crap, disregarding the fact that I took a little more than I was supposed to but not nearly as much as I took three years ago when I hallucinated about existing in a parallel universe. Don't ask. It was creepy, my stomach turning over and over and then reverting back, a topological force to be reckoned with. Last night wasn't quite the same, yet odd and disturbing images still managed to leak through. I wonder what the secret ingredient is of NyQuil: crack? ecstasy?
What I recall is that there was an epic war against strawberry preserves that had mutated into human-consuming blobs, their surface temperature high enough to melt one's skin. Through the midst of all this, my friend Richard lay helpless in his SF apartment. I had no idea how to help him out, as he seemed to be lamenting over the fact that he was going to die, and he was going to die alone. If this were a Hollywood movie, sex would have ensued; but through some pathetic twist of NyQuil-ecstasy events, something strange happened to Richard: he began crying, and crying uncontrollably-- through his HAIR. That's right, right along with his tear ducts, his locks of reddish brown hair were set up to a figurative sprinkler system that made the both of us wetter the more depressed he got.
I woke up.
I wonder what'll happen TONIGHT because regardless of how much NyQuil I take, it'll always mess with my dreams.
What had occurred over that year after I left him? What had come of his pursuit of her, after publicly embarrassing me in front of her? Did she ever query about my time with him or did he pull her strings in just the right places to silence her?
In the moment that I first saw him reclining on my parent's bed to the moment the enunciation of this affectionate nickname escaped his quiet lips my fear of his power and wrath grew tenfold. I verbally attacked him for leaving me long before he knew me; he retaliated with the harsh reality that I pursued knowing others while knowing him-- an even greater violation of his growing affection for me, he said, choking on his words.
I couldn't help but feel bad knowing that this body of mine is the same body that had committed so many acts like this before; but before I drew in a shuddered breath to cry, I knew that he felt as powerless as I for never wanting to know me while I was there for him.
( Collapse )
The first thing I remember is waking up in a large Victorian-style white bathtub, the air around me steaming. There are other people in the tub with me, most notably this tall and muscular African guy I know from my math classes (in reality). But something's wrong with his skin, most notably that it isn't there. I see his ribcage poking up from underneath layers of muscle, and twine is wrapped around his stocky body to retain the muscle's shape. When I realize I'm tied with twine as well, and there is a crowd of skin-covered, clothed persons watching all of us in the bathtub. Are we marinating? Are they going to eat us??
Apparently so, because the African guy stands up and makes a poignant speech to the "cannibals" (the normal people watching us) about how what they're doing is inhumane, and they should elect someone to represent all of us that are about to be eaten, all of us that are currently marinating. Of course I think what he says is bullshit: what do they care? They brought us here to skin us alive and eat us! I'm trying to look for a way out, and before his speech is over I get the idea that he is only trying to stall, buy us some time so we can all escape. While I'm looking for a way out, I see--of all people-- my mother sitting perched up on a stool in the corner of the large room. She's doing something with her hands that I don't quite remember, either drinking or smoking, but in reality, my mother does niether of these things.
I notice that the door to her bedroom is wide open. She realizes this the same time that I do, and I bolt for it, leaving behind the steaming bath of marinating human bodies, the African guy, and all the ravenous, eager cannibals.
The room is painted and decorated a uniform color of pastel blue, and directly across the room from the door is a window, from where I can see the street. I get to the window and can already feel the pain that jumping from a second story will bring to my skinless body, but I do it anyway--I'd risk anything for freedom. Pain is just a trivial thing, I convince myself. So I jump. The leader of these cannibals, an older woman dressed in white with white hair that so closely resembles Joan Rivers screams obscenities at me, "FUCK YOU! FUCK YOUUUUUUUUUUU!" I just flipped her off and hid behind the corner of the house before her cannibal henchmen were able to get out of the house. She didn't see where I'd gone to, which was stupid.
I jumped a few fences before I got extremely exhausted and decided to find a house that would take me in for the night. I was successful. they fed me and blanketed me and asked all about what had happened. They said I could stay for the night and even though I sensed something fishy, I didn't leave.
The father gave me a tour of the house but when he left me to my room I realized that there was still one more room that he didn't show me. It wasn't locked, but difficult to open.
The room had about three television monitors lined up on a shelftop that lit the room in a warm blue tone. On the floor were tools and plans that I quickly recognized were the same ones at the cannibal house! The father must be one of the people heading this whole movement/cult!
Without thinking, I gathered all the plans and tools on a blanket and rolled it up. I had no idea where I was going to, I just knew I had to confiscate this sort of thing as evidence against the cannibal cult. I left the house stealthily, but I still didn't know where to go. I was getting tired, and I missed my eyelids.
I dumpstered for clothing and tried to stay out of populated areas. It seemed the people comprising this cult could be anywhere, any ordinary person. So now there was nobody I could trust. I thought about going to my boyfriend, but was overcome with a realization that I couldn't remember how he fit into this entire picture, if at all. Did he die trying to rescue me from the cannibals? Was he one of them, that offered me to them for their communal consumption? Was he dead? Dying? Alive? In hiding? I strained to remember, and when I couldn't, I just stopped caring and found my way into obscurity. More specifically, I lived in Santa Cruz, where the homeless dwell in numbers and would willingly, avidly listen to my strange tales about being skinned alive and nearly eaten at the will of my own mother.