Friday, January 27, 2012

The nightmares have returned.

For a time, I had slipped back into my nights of nothingness; my nights haunted by the emotional emptiness of temporary oblivion.

And I was perfectly okay with that.

It was empty, but at least it did me no harm.

These new nightmares are stronger than ever.

They are less violent; less visually disturbing than usual, and yet somehow...more unsettling.

Each dark universe is incredibly unique.

Wrong somehow in a way that is simply beyond adequate description.

Impossible phenomena occur all around me, with no reason or explanation ever offered, as though the laws of the physical world as we know them had simply never existed.

Much to my frustration, I do not remember these worlds.

At least, not entirely.

Any details that do remain in my active memory are but meaningless fragments of an infinitely more puzzling whole.

Strange, levitating forms of a light-like substance, shifting with no warning or regularity between chaotic liquid states and solid, crystalline structures.

A half of a room, filled only with halves of objects.

A table that stands on two legs, but has the stability of four.

A man who can turn himself inside out through his mouth and back again who is met not with the anticipated screams of terror, but with fascinated applause from onlookers.

Individuals whose faces change so gradually over the course of a conversation that if you had not been paying attention, you would not have realized that by the time that they walked away, they were completely different people.

Objects that, when thrown, hang in the air just slightly longer than expected.

A subtle sense of a perpetual and unknown danger, even in the comfort of the mundane.

There are so many pieces remaining.

So many nagging, lingering pieces that stay behind to mock my inability to retain the context of these deeply uncomfortable reveries.

Every morning, I awake with a start, often speaking or coughing and with my muscles held so tense that even the slightest sudden movement causes my entire system to ache.

How long do I lay there awake before my consciousness snaps into awareness, suddenly warning me not to move until I have let go of that night's imagined reality and allowed my body to relax?

Each dream is gone within seconds, before I am allowed an opportunity to copy it into some permanent medium.

Even my voice is of no use, as the thoughts entering my microphone are incoherent at best as I watch each universe rend itself apart in my mind's eye.

I lay in silence, grasping for something to say as large sections of each dream fall away in every direction, until each once horrifying construct is nothing more than a few singular ideas left abandoned in a non-geometrical, infinite white void.

These surreal worlds vanish so quickly; so purposefully and efficiently, almost as though my unconscious knows that they would drive my conscious mind insane.

It would be an untruth to say that a part of me is not fascinated by these worlds.

A part of me knows that the discomfort is worth the experience.

A part of me can tolerate the fear.

Part of me is fascinated.

But the rest of me has barely slept in weeks.


  1. I am fascinated by the descriptions of your dreams. I am all too familiar with the feeling of falling asleep only to awake into a strange dream world that leaves you feeling exhausted when you open your eyes again. Sometimes I wonder if the worlds I visit when I dream are in fact reality, and THIS is the dream...

  2. I spend a lot of time pondering that very same question.

  3. This is really well written, and exactly how I feel after a weird dream. Just kind of off kilter. Like your mind is trying to tell you something, but your brain can't quite process it.