Pills, pills, everywhere!

My dreams are becoming stranger and stranger. My mind keeps plucking random people I’ve met here or there and putting them in my dreams. The only one I’ve had lately that wasn’t painful was one about you.

We were staying in this cabin. I came and got you from the airport, and we drove out, far away from everything and everyone. It was dark and I didn’t know the road very well, but I seemed to know the place we were headed to. It was a dirt road riddled with potholes and surrounded by ugly, spindly trees. I know where it was supposed to be, but it wasn’t the same house. It was different, bigger, grander, but somehow more run down. I don’t remember what we talked about or why you made me laugh, only that when I woke, it wasn’t with anger or annoyance for once, as fleeting as those might be. I was terrible to you, but you didn’t seem to care. We stayed up and sat by the fireplace and did nothing of consequence. We just talked like we always do. 

They gave me all those pills. I haven’t really been taking them. The pain is minimal, and the one Vicodin I did take was mostly out of boredom. It didn’t even take away the slight pain I did have, which is probably unusual. I’ve taken it before, and it didn’t work then either. I’m not sure what that means. I’m immune? I’m supposed to feel pain? I need to take 10 to feel an effect? I like the muscle relaxers; they give me the most wonderful dreamless sleep. I wake up and don’t care that I did, roll over, and go back to sleep. Last night I didn’t take one because I was so tired already, and I was plagued by more dreams. People from work keep showing up, and I hate it. I already cut them out, so why must they return to haunt me? I rarely think of them anymore, but they come back over and over like an annoying reminder of my own incompetence at shutting them out. They’re not nightmares, so I am not aware. I can’t shake myself out of these, and I can’t bring myself to care. It’s like a fly buzzing in my ear and nothing more.

I use a door now. It’s steel and impenetrable. It gleams wickedly like the edge of a blade, both defensive and offensive. I lock them behind it when I don’t want them. I lock thoughts behind it, things I don’t want to consider right now, or actions that must be held off. I keep lustful things behind it and conservative things. Anything and everything that is impulse. It’s a shaky kind of control, and I know that. One day I won’t be able to shut it fast enough. But I imagine it each time a thought comes that I don’t want. All the terrible things I imagine and desire, I push them into the crack and then slam the steel shut. There’s a tiny window there, and when it’s one of my enemies I’ve shut away, I always go up to that little peephole and smile.

“You can’t get me here,” I say.

Sometimes, when I’m at my worst, I open the door. I open it and I let it flood me, and all those sick, perverted things I have thought here or there break into the inner sanctum. It feels like a filthy place afterward, but I know that I deserve such punishments. I will replay my worst moments, despite the pain of it. Anguish over my failures never ceases to get a rise out of me, my one weakness, the one thing that can slither under that door even when I’ve barred it shut. 

And still, sometimes, I let those people inside. I let them go too far into the shadows where that thing creeps. It’s twisted and vile and cruel, that snake in me. It never has a real form, just some accumulation of parts from nightmares. He’s the butcher that used to hang me in my dreams as a kid, he’s the beast that stalked me in the moonlit forest, he’s all those times I picked things up and threw them in a fit of rage, he’s the vengeful part the one that holds the evil close and keeps it safe for me while I play the game with everyone else. 

I get to wait. I get to watch. And I am never sorry. 

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Dream within a dream or the plant of death

I don’t dream often. Nightmares can’t find me because I learned when I was very young how to outsmart them. I don’t even have to leave them anymore because it’s always easier to build on what is already there—manipulate it, rather than shut it down in its entirety.

I feel like I have had this dream before, but I don’t know whether or not to trust that feeling. I walk around with a perpetual sense of deja vu that I can’t really shake. I see things, and I somehow know that I have seen them before. Sometimes I flirt with the idea that those dreams we can’t remember are actually dreams of the future. Maybe, somewhere, we already know what can come to pass, and with this foresight we alter our choices, change our ultimate decisions.

There is little reality to this dream, but it was so vivid that I lost my sense of what was logical and sane, and what wasn’t.

I’m in this place that is both dark and light. Everything  is lush and green, and the air smells sweet like it does here in the summer. There’s a morning dew settled on the grass and the sky is clear and blue. There’s a house with large windows that let in the morning sunlight. The floors are hardwood, and the ambience is warm and inviting. Somehow, my family is here. I wander the halls, searching for them.

I find my mother making dinner. I can’t stop thinking about what I saw earlier—the plant. I know she has used it before, and I want more than anything for its properties to be true. I ask her if she has seen the dead. She stops what she is doing and looks over at me. She tells me that the plant is dangerous, that I should stay away. The dead have almost taken her away before, and she fears they will steal me.

I tell her that I have a plan, that it will be different for me. We talk for awhile, she tells me what has happened before. Then she pulls a bag from one of the drawers and hands it to me. Its contents are a deep green. They are small, insignificant-looking little leaves. They lead to the dead, she says, and strangely enough I believe her. She warns me to wait for her, to not try them alone, but I’m certain it will be different for me, that my barriers and doors that I use in my mind in waking life will shut them out. They won’t drag me down, I tell her.

I wander outside. I don’t tell anyone what I am about to do. I walk through the woods, enjoying the light, before my curiosity can no longer be held at bay. I tear off a corner of one of the leaves and place it on my tongue. I chew it to pulp and swallow. Minutes pass, with no results. I take a larger portion this time, and within seconds, the world begins to dim. It’s as though a filter has been switched on, letting  in only the ugly light. The sun has gone away, and my vision is beginning to blur. The trees have  become bent and ominous, and where there was once light, the darkness is creeping in from all around. I stumble, feeling cold and alone. Someone is shouting at me, but I can’t understand what they are saying.

There are no dead here, I realize. Only sorrow and pain. I know I am searching for someone, someone important, someone I needed to talk to, but I am all alone.

When I come to, my mother is there. She is angry at me for going off alone to speak to them. I don’t have the heart to tell her that there was no one there. She says she and my father are getting a divorce, and although it surprises me, it doesn’t make me upset. I tell her to do what feels right, what make  her happy. I can’t stop thinking about the plant, and how the dead failed to materialize.

I try it again. I take more and more, hoping for a different outcome, but it seems that the more I ingest, the more the startling loneliness strangles me in its grasp. We’re all dead, I think, laughing to myself, lost in my haze. The world is twisted and rotted, but it seems more real that way.

I can’t see the dead, I realize. I’m different from those who can. I am not so special as I had tried to convince myself, and this person I wanted to see, does not wish to see me. It’s over, I think to myself. I laugh and laugh, even as the woods go exceptionally dark, and I feel that all too familiar discontent and hate and self loathing bearing down on me, forcing their way into my very being.

This is what I am, I think to myself. I am not so special.

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.