Once in a blue moon...
so I'm at "home" or at least what my parents
would like me to call home.
It can't be home, because i have no memories,
attachments, friends, contacts, knowledge, desire,
comfort, or anything remotely resembling my home besides
the existence of the gene pool from which I was drawn, here.
My room is not my room, it's a strange place, unrecognizable
to my existence.
I never sleep well when I'm at "home"
too silent.
So it was no exception last night (the first night is
always the worst).
I've grown accustomed to sedating myself with
my angel/whore (herb) every night before I drift off
into slumber, successfully suppressing any semblance
of a dream from my consciousness.
I can't remember the last time I dreamed,
or at least could remember a dream when I woke up.
"Home" rips me from the grasp of my angel/whore
and it takes me forever to doze off.
last night I had three nightmares, waking sweaty,
sticky, scared shitless and disoriented in a place
indeterminable to my half-conscious mind.
Each time I woke with the sense of "where the fuck am I?"
and "what the fuck do I do? do I get out of this unfamiliar
bed and just run somewhere?"
confused.
each nightmare so vivid, yet absurd enough to be
recognized as a dream.
each time, I wanted to remember these dreams, and with
every millisecond details slipping away.
the one vignette I do remember from one of the dreams went
something like this:
I'm lying asleep in my bed in my apartment, yet at
this point I'm a spectator of my sleeping self, possibly sitting
in the corner of my room. A voyeur spying on my sleeping body.
I hear loud bangs coming from downstairs, as if
ryan and tina are hitting my floor with a broom.
I see my body jolt upright and suddenly I'm looking through
my groggy eyes, having to readjust to the darkness.
the banging continues, and all I can think is "fuck, I'm sleeping, they can go fuck themselves if I happen to be
snoring too loud"
I lay back down -- eye lids rock closed.
the instant the black becomes total I hear a loud, forceful
knock on the back door of the apartment.
I rise from my bed, taller than I usually feel,
ready to finally stand up to and rip the heads off my ridiculous neighbors for bothering me while I was asleep.
The route to the back door, takes forever and is cavernous
with only glimpses of light. The whole while the banging continues.
I reach the back door, and start fumbling with locks (for some
reason there is like 5) the whole while the banging/knocking
continues. I frustratingly say, "I'm opening the fucking
door, hold on!!" and as I get the last latch and swing open
the door, expecting to see Tina in her god-awful hornrims, I
instead see the rotting corpse of Amber Thorpe on my back
porch (what I've pictured her body looked like the day
my landlord found her).
I wake up sweating, confused, terrified and not knowing
where the fuck I am. I felt as if I was insane and this
was just another phase of the dream. it took me a full two minutes to realize that I was at my parents house, and that
was too absurd to be real.
Anyway, I apologize for the incredibly long, meaningless post.
I just wish that (even for a brief period) I could be as genius as Michel Gondry and remember all of my dreams, and use them as inspiration. It was very gondry this morning to realize, (much like he figured out why sigourney weaver's pussy was so soft), that I had fused two of my anxieties about
neighbors (Ryan and Tina complaining about me living, and the awful nature of the rotting corpse that had lain above me for two weeks in my old apartment) into one teriffying absurd situation in my subconscious.
I need to watch waking life again.
would like me to call home.
It can't be home, because i have no memories,
attachments, friends, contacts, knowledge, desire,
comfort, or anything remotely resembling my home besides
the existence of the gene pool from which I was drawn, here.
My room is not my room, it's a strange place, unrecognizable
to my existence.
I never sleep well when I'm at "home"
too silent.
So it was no exception last night (the first night is
always the worst).
I've grown accustomed to sedating myself with
my angel/whore (herb) every night before I drift off
into slumber, successfully suppressing any semblance
of a dream from my consciousness.
I can't remember the last time I dreamed,
or at least could remember a dream when I woke up.
"Home" rips me from the grasp of my angel/whore
and it takes me forever to doze off.
last night I had three nightmares, waking sweaty,
sticky, scared shitless and disoriented in a place
indeterminable to my half-conscious mind.
Each time I woke with the sense of "where the fuck am I?"
and "what the fuck do I do? do I get out of this unfamiliar
bed and just run somewhere?"
confused.
each nightmare so vivid, yet absurd enough to be
recognized as a dream.
each time, I wanted to remember these dreams, and with
every millisecond details slipping away.
the one vignette I do remember from one of the dreams went
something like this:
I'm lying asleep in my bed in my apartment, yet at
this point I'm a spectator of my sleeping self, possibly sitting
in the corner of my room. A voyeur spying on my sleeping body.
I hear loud bangs coming from downstairs, as if
ryan and tina are hitting my floor with a broom.
I see my body jolt upright and suddenly I'm looking through
my groggy eyes, having to readjust to the darkness.
the banging continues, and all I can think is "fuck, I'm sleeping, they can go fuck themselves if I happen to be
snoring too loud"
I lay back down -- eye lids rock closed.
the instant the black becomes total I hear a loud, forceful
knock on the back door of the apartment.
I rise from my bed, taller than I usually feel,
ready to finally stand up to and rip the heads off my ridiculous neighbors for bothering me while I was asleep.
The route to the back door, takes forever and is cavernous
with only glimpses of light. The whole while the banging continues.
I reach the back door, and start fumbling with locks (for some
reason there is like 5) the whole while the banging/knocking
continues. I frustratingly say, "I'm opening the fucking
door, hold on!!" and as I get the last latch and swing open
the door, expecting to see Tina in her god-awful hornrims, I
instead see the rotting corpse of Amber Thorpe on my back
porch (what I've pictured her body looked like the day
my landlord found her).
I wake up sweating, confused, terrified and not knowing
where the fuck I am. I felt as if I was insane and this
was just another phase of the dream. it took me a full two minutes to realize that I was at my parents house, and that
was too absurd to be real.
Anyway, I apologize for the incredibly long, meaningless post.
I just wish that (even for a brief period) I could be as genius as Michel Gondry and remember all of my dreams, and use them as inspiration. It was very gondry this morning to realize, (much like he figured out why sigourney weaver's pussy was so soft), that I had fused two of my anxieties about
neighbors (Ryan and Tina complaining about me living, and the awful nature of the rotting corpse that had lain above me for two weeks in my old apartment) into one teriffying absurd situation in my subconscious.
I need to watch waking life again.