Para-fucking-noia.

My night was plagued by nightmares. One stands out the most.

I’m at my old house. It must be fall, because the ground is covered in leaves. There’s a wetness too, as though it only just rained, leaving everything soggy and wet. I’m outside for some reason, walking up the hill toward the goat pen. I keep thinking that I’ll open the gate to the fire road and go up the path. I never go up there; it’s dangerous without a gun, but nonetheless I am compelled to go.

Then I see it. Something black, off in the brush. It’s tall, that is all that I catch. I am instantly afraid. The fear that I rarely experience, comes over me. I get that strange prickling at my temples and I start to breathe heavily.

What the fuck was it? Did something get loose? An animal maybe?

Somehow I know that it is no animal. I had been watching horror films all night and though they never effect me, in the dream I instantly want to use them as an explanation for why I am suddenly shaking.

Did I really see something?

I can stand it no longer, and I run, all the way down that steep, red slope, nearly slipping on all the wet leaves. Then I’m on the gravel, going toward the house. I look back. Nothing there.

When I reach the cement, I calm a little, slowing down. I’m huffing, choking on the cold air. It’s been so long since I ran. I wait. I watch. I keep thinking something is going to come down the hill. It’s going to get me. It’s going to kill me. It’s going to tear out my heart and eat it, and oh god I’m not going to be able to stop it. It’s going to eat me. I’m going to die with that fucking thing eating my goddamn entrails, and it’s going to be smiling its monster smile.

I can’t take it. I turn away again and rush over to the door, rip it open so that it creaks irritably on its hinges, then slam it behind me. I lock the chain first, then everything else. And that stupid door. Stupid fucking door. Every winter it expands, and fits even more illy into its frame. There’s a crack that lets the light in. The thing…. It’s going to get in, that is all I can think.

Seconds pass, and I move through the tiny house, venturing finally to my parents’ window, where I get a view of the two sheds and the wide, gravel-covered driveway. By this time I am trying to convince myself that it was nothing. I’m imagining things. I’ve been alone too long and now I am making things up. That’s it. It’s all just me being an idiot. I’m stupid and that’s all there is to it.

But I can’t tear my gaze from the window. I know its there. Maybe it isn’t real, but it’s there, in my head, lurking around the shop outside. It’s going to come get me. It’s going to break the fucking window in and come get me. I back away from the glass, fearful suddenly.

I’m making it up. I must be making it up. There’s no monster. Who could possibly believe in such a thing? No monster. There is no monster. Nope. Just me, all alone in the house, spending too much time watching a bunch of shit too late at night. Need to lay off the movies.

But I can’t get it out of my head, and I start to pace the brown carpet.

It’s coming, and it’s going to get me. It’s going to eat my heart right out and I’m going to die feeling it.

I end up at the window again. I stare for the longest time. Seconds. Minutes. Nothing changes. The thought of where the cat might be makes me frantic, and I stupidly search around the room for him.

Where did he go? What if the thing got him?

But I can’t leave the window. I can’t.

Then I see it. Something black moving by the shed.

What I hated about this dream was how powerless I felt. I couldn’t do anything. In most ‘monster’ dreams I end up with a shotgun or some object to smack the shit out of it with. But not in this dream. It was all wrong. I was weak and alone and pathetic, resigned to dying. I didn’t pull myself from the dream. Why is that?

I woke up feeling afraid.

Dream

It was only as I was driving down this narrow road that my dream from last night reemerged for me to remember. I swerved to avoid hitting something in the road, and it’s when I saw what it was that it all came unburied. There was a head in the road, a buck’s head, missing the chunk of its skull cap where it antlers should have been. It still had the fur on it, fully recognizable as what it was except for that the body was scattered all around, and its eyes were missing.

Bloated, dead horses, that’s what came back to me. There was this muddy slope covered in a myriad of them, many of them still living. They came in an assortment of colors, but the filth had marred the shine from them so they all appeared dull and monotonous. Except for the white horse. I’m walking along the hillside, calf deep in sludge that was a combination of manure and old, rotting hay. They are shying from me, their manes matted, dreadlocked from years of neglect. The white horse is standing at the base of an oak, appearing untouched by the famine and dirtiness. He’s thick through his neck and limbs, like he’s been eating very well. I’m heading toward the leaning oak.

The horse is eyeing the small animal in front of it, snorting and acting generally displeased. The creature is tiny and white, too-long legs  folded under it awkwardly. Just as I approach, the stallion begins to trample it. The little splotch of white rolls over and cries out, as the horse repeatedly knocks it around. I start to shout, and I see the white horse’s ears prick in my direction, and he even ceases his bullying to glance at me. But then, as though he never saw me, he paws at the ground again, pushing the small animal with his hard hooves. I’m waving my arms now, hollering ‘hey!’, and going as fast as I can to them.

I continue to make a lot of noise even as I get feet from them. The white horse doesn’t seem to know what to think of me and seems to have abandoned his little game in order to better stare. He’s moving from foot to foot nervously, but I keep thinking he’s going to charge at me anyway, as I reach down and grab the mangled little creature. As soon as I have it in my arms I start backing away, and much to my luck, one of the other horses starts something with the stallion, biting at the graceful white neck with yellowed teeth. I take the opportunity to turn away from them and hurry back up to the top of the hill.

I realize that the animal is not what I thought. I mistook it for a lamb. It’s a newborn goat, blue-eyed with fur whiter than snow beneath the grime.

The darkest night.

I had a very vivid dream for the first time in a long while the other night. It was strange, because I was completely aware that it was a dream. I knew I had nothing to fear, though when I looked up at the greying sky and the slashes of purple across it, I seemed to doubt myself.

My childhood friend had this huge, sprawling yard, almost eaten up by dark green grass. It was picturesque, so much so that I can still conjure up a memory of it in my head with no difficulty. It has stayed with me, one of the few things I have not clouded over with distrust and hate. That’s how most of my memories are: tainted. They have become worn by years of resentment.

But in this dream the yard is very different. The sun isn’t shining down brightly, spreading the scent of grass with its heat. There is no sun. There is nothing but a vague light to the sky, heavily filtered and eventually drowned out by clouds. It is day, but yet I get the impression that it is night too. How could it be both?

The trees are all wrong. They are white-barked, yes, but these ones are covered in tiny pink and white blossoms. There are so many, that the trees look like powder puffs from a distance. Up close, every flower sways, and the tiny, gnarled branches dance and click together as the storm brews. And it’s coming, it must be coming.

I begin walking the path toward the house, staring up at those bizarre trees wondering why I am dreaming such a dream.

When I woke at four, it was black out. I showered and picked at some fruit, still half asleep. I stumbled out to the car with a jacket pulled around me, and let my mother drive me to work. When I looked out the window, I felt like I was in the dream again. The moon dusted with such a light patch of clouds, that it seemed hazy, as though it were emerging from a mist. And it was huge. I hardly ever see it that way, where it seems to eat the sky. Even the orange glow of the sun rising wasn’t enough to cause distraction from it.

I woke from one dream to fall into another. It was almost like never waking up. It wasn’t real until I was walking across the newly-laid concrete, staring up at the neon signs instead of the trees of blossoms. I still do not understand the purpose of either, perhaps because I search for something that isn’t there.

Escape.

It’s summer and it’s cold and it’s raining. I can hear the raindrops pattering on the windows and the sounds of a movie playing in the next room. The power keeps surging through the cords, making the lights flicker and the TVs buzz. There was even thunder a few minutes ago, so loud that the cat woke from his dead sleep and crawled over closer to me before dozing off again.

I couldn’t sleep, and I’m not really allowed, as odd as it sounds. My godfather came to visit, fortunately leaving my godmother behind, much to my mother’s relief and my own. I am not in the mood to deal with her, and given how irritable I was at work, I can only believe that it was most definitely for the best.

I found myself smiling and smiling all day. Not because I had to. I kept daydreaming, playing this scene in my head. That part in Fight Club where Tyler is going to crash the car and he asks Jack what he wants to do before he dies (Jack says he doesn’t know, and doesn’t have much to say about his life). Then they crash, have their ‘near life experience’. I burned my hands over and over on the grill, which I was lucky enough to avoid before. Now I get to ponder my blisters over my time off. I searched for that scene for a good twenty minutes on Youtube. I swear it was there a week ago, because I recall watching it. But it was gone. I’ve been so off, I’m beginning to think that I may have dreamed it up, that perhaps I only thought I watched it. I dream strange things these days besides the nightmares. I live my normal, everyday life, things happen…but it isn’t real. And when I wake I can’t remember what was conjured and what truly happened. I have conversations with my parents, only to realize that it never took place. Then I get that pang, that sensation in my gut, like deja vu, almost, and I know it is only me losing myself. It doesn’t help that my mother can’t remember things half the time, and even if I were to ask her if something took place, she would likely be sketchy on it.  Her memory is getting so terrible. She keeps telling me the same things over and over. I say to her, “You told me, don’t you remember?”

She had a mood today and I thought it was hysterical. I smirked, and hid away in my room, listening to the sounds of her cursing and banging dishes around. Sometimes I am grateful that she has to feel what I feel for once. It seems only fair.

I fled the movie.

I hate how I get bored so easily, yet I can stare out the window for hours without moving. I’m sure my mother won’t appreciate it; she’ll mention something later about me not spending time with my godfather when he drove all of this way. It’s only four hours. He can drive it again. It’s a lovely drive over a mountaintop covered in the thickest forest. You can’t see even ten feet into the trees, and it’s that emerald green color, the sort you don’t much see around here. There are winding rivers the whole way, usually frosted with bits of old snow and layers of ice. Every time I watch it go by the car window I want to tell whoever is driving to stop. I saw a bull elk cross over one of the streams once, before disappearing into the trees. My chest literally aches each and every time I go by that expanse.  I am almost surprised to see it when I do. I ask myself how something so incredibly perfect could be a reality, not some worthless thought in my head. How can it be true? How can it be real? I always doubt, but then…there it is.

I have decided to pay for part of my car insurance each month (I offered to foot the whole bill, but my mother wouldn’t have it), even if it takes a huge chunk of my paycheck. We got some notice in the mail, wherein it was more or less stated that I either revoke my driver’s license or get put on the insurance. It’s a lot of money. All because I’m young, and therefore must be stupid and untrustworthy. And the accident down in Vegas isn’t helping matters any. It got counted against me even though he hit me. Oh well, what can you do? At least it came up at a time when I have a means to help out with it.

But I know what I will do. I’m going to drive again, even if I still hate it. I’ll do it, just to have a way to get around. And when I get used to going everywhere on my own, I’ll drive up that mountaintop, and I’ll park on the side of the road. And I’ll walk in to that perfect forest. I’ll walk in and disappear.   

Because I don’t have to pass it by.

Ugly on the inside.

More poetry from me. Laziness and a lack of concern prevent me from genuinely giving a shit whether or not any of it makes sense or even flows well together. Sorry. I just want to write, and I don’t care about what. I’m impatient as hell when it comes to poetry; I just like it because I can leave esoteric thoughts without explanation.

Losing definition
A place where there seems to be no such thing
Blurs, fuzzy edges
I need a new prescription for my mind
Holes through everything
That’s the only piece of clarity
My mistakes, my flaws…
They are all I can see.

””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””

Useless, forgotten
Granted dreams I never wanted
Losing sense of sanity, I crumble
Yet it is in insanity that the world’s words dull to a mumble
Only now do my own dreams become clear
Now I can see my true reflection in the mirror
The loss of distortions
Hate has made “just kill yourself” a personal mission
Each lie makes inclination stronger
Internally I struggle to live a little longer
Now I live to fight the monster
Silence in my mind will tell me when there is a martyr
I must select a side
Damn the voices that try to drown me in black tide…
Even in death I am the bloody battleground.

I’m very tired. I spent the night having nightmares. One in particular, my only friend, my cat, got hit by a truck…along with some made up friend in the dream. Fuck the friend, I went straight for my cat and picked him up. He was barely breathing, and I could feel some of his ribs pushed downward inside, crushing him beneath his black fur. He was really hurting…and I had the thought of putting him out of his misery (which ALWAYS happens in those types of dreams for me; I kill something to prevent further suffering, a lot like I want to do to myself). Then I woke up, went back to sleep and had another nightmare about being raped. Oh thank you for the break, wonderful mind of mine! I thoroughly enjoyed your sick fucking joke. Go to hell. Even in dreams it won’t break me.

When all of your wishes are granted…

many of your dreams will be destroyed.

I never used to understand what that meant, not until I had everything and then realized that it was all at a cost: whatever soul I used to have.

When you get everything the veil of deception eventually lifts. What you had aspired to, everything that was beautiful and so seemingly perfect…turns out to be fake. A lie. You strived, suffered, toiled, for nothing. It may be beautiful to onlookers as it once was to you, but now, stark, cold truth slaps you to sanity. In achieving such a goal, part of one’s self must be lost. We change to meet challenges, sometimes for the better, and most often (or at least it seems to me)…for the worst. What we don’t realize is that in doing so, those other things we dreamed up…they can no longer be a reality. It’s only by completely backstepping—regressing—that we can go back and be a semblance of what we once were. Keep in mind, you will never be the same. You took that step toward change and it will forever haunt you.

There is no perfection. At least not for anyone who sees truth…with those who choose lies, who live life in fantasy…you might as well stop reading. Go back to your pseudo perfection—forget all I mentioned, you’ll have more mental and physical longevity that way.

In my lifetime I strive for just five minutes of perfection. That is all I ask. I will be satisfied with a mere taste, because I know that even that small dream is undeserved. I’d be lucky to get five seconds, and I’d take a simple minute over my life.

I’d take a simple minute over my life. That made me smile a little. I always secretly wonder if my death will be my perfection, all that I ever wanted and more, but I refuse to think of it that way. I will not degrade something so pure with petty hopes and dreams—that will surely ruin it, whatever it may give to me, pain or pleasure. Take your pick.

I had it all. Yet I was so unhappy…so different, that I have never been able to fully retrieve the bits of me that I lost in exchange. I regret being so naive. I want to feel again, but at the same time, I can’t be ungrateful for what my mind offered up to quell all emotional pain…. I was not strong enough to feel it; I wouldn’t have lasted more than six months.

Sometimes I feel like I’m drugged. Like someone went and turned on the morphine drip and all I have to do is slap the red button to get more…. But you don’t get a high from this…you only get…a lack of sensation. Nothingness. Dark void. You want to know what I speak of?

I gave up feeling emotion to live. Doesn’t make much sense, does it? But I guess that’s what is funny about me. Different, perhaps. I’d like to head down to the doctor’s office and have them check out my serotonin. Apparently, childhood trauma has been known to burn out the receptors for serotonin. Meaning permanent damage. Interesting, don’t you think? I had no traumas, not besides being fucked over by everyone I knew. But I’m sure that doesn’t count for ‘trauma’, now does it? I wonder though, if this numbness was not just my little scheme…my plan for things ahead. I have to say it all went down with perfect timing. Completely, totally…flawless.

It’s a strange thing when a life-altering event happens and all of a sudden you come to the conclusion that you’ve hardened into an uncaring shell. I never asked to be this. I didn’t want it. But I accept it.

I will embrace it.

Be careful what you wish for……….

The difference between reality and fantasy.

I keep wondering about sleeping. I’m always curious as to whether or not I am awake or asleep. When you nod off as often as I do, the line between reality and fantasy start to blur. I catch myself remembering events that never happened, people I never really met…. It’s frightening too, when I say something to someone, then realize that it was only a dream.

I think it may be stagnation. My life is so drab and just so perpetually the same that it’s not surprising that my mind tries desperately to make up for it. And really, sleep seems to be punishment sometimes. I dream terrible things. My mind haunts me relentlessly at night, playing on fears I didn’t know existed in me. I keep asking why, but I can produce no answer.

It’s funny, because my numbness has streched even farther now; it fills my dreams, my sleeping self. It’s strange to think, but I do believe it may be my defence mechanism, my way of cutting my emotions off so that I don’t have to feel. Now even dreams cannot harm me. I used to wake myself from them, but now I don’t have to worry about that, because now it doesn’t matter what happens to that vulnerable self. She won’t feel it. She’s numb to it now.

It has caused unwanted side effects. Because I no longer care, most of the time I can’t tell I’m asleep. I used to always be able to tell, and wake when I had to. Now I’m trapped in fantasy, and it is now reality that cannot reach me.

The real truth is that there is not much difference between reality and fantasy. In both you can act, in both horrible things can happen.

If I slept always, I would not know that it was fantasy.

Dreams aren’t always an escape; sometimes they are worse than being awake

I look forward to sleeping much of the time. I’m always at least somewhat tired, so when I finally finish my day and crawl into hiding under a mountain of blankets, it’s a relief. Or at least…it used to be. That was until my brain suddenly decided that it would be fun to presume the torture not only during the day, but while I dream. I can’t even remember the last time I had one of my fun, crazy dreams. Instead, I find myself living my nightmares over and over, night after night.

I can control my dreams—to an extent. I don’t like it, I pull myself out and then go back to sleep. But these dreams…the more I have, the harder it is becoming to drag myself out of them, to recognize my own consciousness. I feel like I’m slipping farther away. I feel as though I’m going to a place that I eventually won’t be able to come back from. A trap. I’ve fallen down the well.

The frightening part isn’t even the dreams, so much as my attitude towards them. It’s only in clear states that I come to a realization of just what a problem they are becoming, and I feel a sense of guilt and disgust toward myself. These dreams, the person in them, how could we be the same being? How could we even be close? No morals, no reason, no beliefs. So different from me…or is it? Yet in my gut I know that this person is me…that this is what I will become, pushed too far. But most days I tear these visions from my thoughts, I think nothing of them. I literally lose emotion and simply shrug upon waking, continuing with my day and ignore or don’t recall what I have dreamed.

Most of them are cloudy. I remember very little except directly after I wake. But each time I am jolted awake by this…evil. The thing that won’t let me sleep. Funny thing is, I don’t believe in evil, at least not in the traditional sense. I don’t believe in the Devil, yet he is sometimes the antagonist in my dreams. It’s only recently that I came to understand that this idea of the Devil, this personification in my dreams, it is all part of myself. There is no devil in my dreams…the devil, the evil, the thing that revels in my discomfort, terror, and fear, is myself. I think that is why I feel little about these dreams on a day-to-day basis, because part of me wants this. I’m enjoying it on some sick level.

I wonder now if this is my punishment. Punishment for all the times I threw my instincts and logic aside for the sake of my weak heart. Secretly I’ve long been forcing myself to relive my mistakes. Flashes here and there. I’m driving, I’m reading, I’m watching television, I’m going for a walk, and some stray thought leads me to memories of my life I wish I could forget. I never used to do what I truly wanted. I let the world use me as it wanted, never questioning. And even now, after I’ve put most of it behind me…the thoughts won’t cease. I tell myself how weak and stupid I was, that I still am, that I’m still inclined to be what I used to be. The only reason I’ve even come this far is because of that dark part of me. I have it to thank. My misery is my own doing, and had I listened to those instincts sooner I would have been rewarded rather than shunned as I now am, slowly paying night by night for each an every mistake I’ve ever made.

I keep asking myself that if I accept it…if I become what I’ve always strived to become…would it all stop?