Weird Dreams

I had an odd dream where I was playing with a baby on a balcony and dropped it by accident. But no one called the police because it was the baby's fault.

Those that know me also know that my dreams come very rarely, and are populated by nightmarish characters and events. Now I dream perhaps once every month - hallucinogenic drug trips that involve fire and clowns and scorpions and whatever else my subconscious desires to plague me with. It's extremely terrifying and mind-mangling.

That being said, I prefer my nightmares to good dreams. A while ago I said,

"I had a dream on Saturday night. I never dream, maybe once or twice a year. Usually nightmares. On Saturday I had a nightmare. It was terrible and I woke up sick and I felt so broken. It was real, and the moment I lingered on the threshold of dream and real, on the cusp of awakening, I felt the dream was reality. Except it was so tragic, such a sad dream I felt like throwing up when I awoke.

In spite of this, I prefer bad dreams to those good dreams, because when I linger on the edge of a dream, a bad dream helps me to return to the world I call 'real' more easily than a good dream. With a good dream, I try to fall back within the dream world where everything seems so perfect and magical and all the suffering of the world is lifted from my shoulders. But it never lasts, and when I finally awaken the world seems even bleaker and dull than usual."

When you're on that edge, between dream and reality, which way do you want to fall? Towards your perfect dream world, or your flawed reality? It doesn't matter what you decide - inexorably you're pulled towards the broken life of the awakened - and when you finally do awake, you wish you could fall back into your fake, but perfect world.

Which makes me wonder why I don't dream. Maybe I don't believe in a perfect world. Maybe I've given up on even imagining what perfection would be. Maybe I've lost all hope.

Or maybe I'm living my dream already.

Staggered Steps

Dearly devoted suicide, surrounded by the millions of the silent, the ignorant, the biased and deplorable. To jump into the river, to save a drowning friend, to sacrifice yourself. To add another complex variable into the function of life - to pull from the darkness one that fears the light. To pull a fireman from a burning building, to spare a life at the cost of lives. Felix culpa, my blessed homicide.


We stumble, we stall, we trip and we fall. Life tangles by our feet like the worst of nets, hindering us and delaying us.

Who am I?

If life has shown me anything recently, it's that I'm sorry I'm broken.

But this is who I am. This is what I am. And because of that, I live in a nightmare that's far more complicated than anyone would ever understand. You can try to pierce the shell, but I armor myself with strangeness - dealing with it isn't ever easy, even for myself.

Kiss a needle, or hold a cactus - the closer you get, the more I push back. I'm sorry. It's not really my intention to hurt, but the natural reaction born from a life of distrust. Humans make me sick, so is it any wonder that physical contact makes me flinch? That any words spoken are taken as lies, sprung from a paranoid mind? That 'normality' seems so far away that it's not worth reaching for?

Being me is never, ever easy. Despite how much you may think you know me, no one has even scratched the surface. If you think you know who I am, think again. It may be more befitting to you to assume you know nothing about me, and maybe you'd be closer to the truth. Until you've walked down the road I've been on, and tasted the blood of hundreds of lives on your hands, please don't assume things about me.

You mention love and happiness, but my life has been a stream of negative emotion. I'm devoted to others, but never to myself, and I may never be. These are foreign concepts to me, and although I've encountered them now and again, there are some things that just can't be fixed. Consider the fact that these things make me who I am, and maybe I don't want to change. Please don't guilt me, it's always something hard to do, but it needed to be done. Struggling through things while life gets worse is never a sure bet, and telling the truth is always harder than whispering lies.

No, I'm not normal, but I never claimed to be. No, I won't be alright, I may never be. No, I'm not ready for this, and I tried; but life hardly works like this. Maybe in the future, maybe never, but time will tell. I'm just broken... and I don't know if I want to be fixed.