| Ever since I was 11 years old I have been acquiring dream books... I now have a fucking library full. I have been writing down and deciphering my dreams for about two years now. I love it ... it makes me feel more in touch with myself. I feel as though I can predict the future or something after a really vivid dream. OK, so last night I dreamed: I was walking through a forest with tall pine trees and lots of moss on the ground. It was your perfect fairy tale forest. i then saw a bird and right when i looked at it, it blew up like a balloon. so i was following this swollen bird, as it hopped around, everywhere it went until i got close enough to pick it up. i picked it up and after i had held it my hand for only a few seconds (that seemed to be hours, but i did not move enough for it to be) it blew up... I mean popped. It was really sad, i felt like i had just done something i would never be forgiven for nor forgive myself for. i sat down and started to cry (when i woke up my pillow was wet with tears) and the sky got very dark. the soft moss i was sitting on became rock and the pines became jagged rock formations. when i noticed this, i got up off the ground and saw a figure standing behind me (i don't know how i knew it was there, i guess i felt its presence.... dreams are magic). i knew that the figure had seen me and the bird and was now angry i began to run as fast as i could and the whole slow motion thing that you often get in dreams took place.... you know what I'm talking about right? when you try to run and you can't or try to fly but you are grounded. Anyway, the figure caught up to me and turned me around. It said "you, how could you" in a slimy, crackled voice and got a blade out of its pocket. Right when I was about to lose my head, I woke up. This was one of the more real dreams I have had in a while. If the bird I popped was my mind..... the figure must have been me. Wind In A Box You can capture a little of the wind in a box so it won't blow away or dress yourself in thoughts of a simple man who doesn't know that he is singing to the moon..... and we're gonna make a mask with self control and mold it to his face ... hoping it doesn't break or crack in the place between the eyes that are staring into space like a knife, some night at you. There's an untold story of his road to glory with nonsense dispensed carelessly one morning as she set foot in the frameless meadow with flashbulb fences. he is under siege by camping media. Enraged beyond belief by both those in camouflage and the camera gods. He enters his home alone and wondering when it will stop. Fifteen minutes of the same and they were gone with a long long time ago. he pours a drink in a glass that's already used, turns to the television and flips on the news. "They're talking to me... Am I crazy? Am I?" "Just relax" she says through the phone. I'll be home soon. I love you too. she is stuck in traffic and doesn't know he forgot their anniversary by now he's drunk and in sincerity he slurs "I'm sorry." The box is empty but he writes a poem from the top of his head and offers his words again and again. He's scared to let her love him... Yet another dream... im a stranger in this dark town. the skyline is a hazy gray, as if someone has smoked too many cigarettes too fast. i see small clusters of long dead trees and rows of lightless, obscure, little houses. its gritty roads make harsh scraping sounds on my feet. the sound reminds me faintly of rice crispies. abruptly, i stop walking and look towards my feet. the sight almost makes me wretch. there, next to my sneakers are the gooey remnants of my one-eyed cat. i can still make out the fur pattern on her small face. i feel tears burning my skin. off in the distance i see my mother. her strawberry-blonde hair offers some reassurance in this crazy place. as i run to her, i see she isnt alone. there is a man with her, holding her hand. for no other reason than that he is with my mother, i want to rip his face off. no sooner thoght than mysticaly done, i suppose. there are now deep cracks in his skin where crimson rivers of blood flow to the ground, forming shallow pools. i become disconnected from myself, but feel myself running away from this horrible scene. my legs begin to ache, but i still run faster. finally, i collapse in a small human heap in the middle of the street. looking up, i am relieved to see my friends standing over me. their faces are bright and hopeful in the nightmare that has become my life. i wondered if i would wake, but here they are. i reach up to them for help and touch a hand, but no. it is not a hand that i am touching, it is cardboard and it is falling. i am truely alone now. |
| Becca's Dreamland |