Cthulhian dreams.
I dreamt about people I never met last night in a tumble of dreams which fell one into the other easily, beautifully. Not all the dreams were happy in tone, but they were all wonderfully interesting for me, the dreamer.
The more broadly interesting pair involved me meeting up with someone I've been speaking with more frequently lately, visiting him and his, and feeling warm and welcomed. It was a midday visit, which makes sense as we've discussed lunch more than once, though this isn't what I'd imagined. I know it was midday because sunlight was streaming into the room. I never saw anyone else, but only heard voices, mostly, but not solely, his. We were discussing these stories he wished to write. They'd be retellings of Lovecraft's tales and other Cthulhian mythos in a modern high school setting, reflecting the power struggles of the school's pubescent populace through the grander battles and political machinisations of the elder beings. What he was asking of me was to bridge his stories, to perhaps write background to occur in the interim between his own tails, to help give them depth and life. In recollection, I remember it akin to an autostereogram, in which I'd be penning something to blend into the background, while his would be the depth emerging from the chaos of my creations.
The dream descended into the actual stories, in which I was one of the characters, talking with the other characters as we tread the high school halls, discussing the politics of their interaction, as if I were the new kid, being shown around, told how things worked here.
All in all, my dreams were lovely, and I very, very much wanted to stay in bed this morning. Here's too more marvelous dreaming over the weekend.
The more broadly interesting pair involved me meeting up with someone I've been speaking with more frequently lately, visiting him and his, and feeling warm and welcomed. It was a midday visit, which makes sense as we've discussed lunch more than once, though this isn't what I'd imagined. I know it was midday because sunlight was streaming into the room. I never saw anyone else, but only heard voices, mostly, but not solely, his. We were discussing these stories he wished to write. They'd be retellings of Lovecraft's tales and other Cthulhian mythos in a modern high school setting, reflecting the power struggles of the school's pubescent populace through the grander battles and political machinisations of the elder beings. What he was asking of me was to bridge his stories, to perhaps write background to occur in the interim between his own tails, to help give them depth and life. In recollection, I remember it akin to an autostereogram, in which I'd be penning something to blend into the background, while his would be the depth emerging from the chaos of my creations.
The dream descended into the actual stories, in which I was one of the characters, talking with the other characters as we tread the high school halls, discussing the politics of their interaction, as if I were the new kid, being shown around, told how things worked here.
All in all, my dreams were lovely, and I very, very much wanted to stay in bed this morning. Here's too more marvelous dreaming over the weekend.