he had an awful dream
those he related it to called it
a nightmare
he corrected them immediately A
dream is a dream is a dream Determining
where it comes fromno matter its context is fascinating and worthwhile If one cowerslooks away when a dream
presents it is their construct if they dismiss it as a nightmare I think they have
thrown awaycast off valuable and likely very constructive insights to their
psyche perhaps motivations and desires Nightmare
fear opens their dreaming eyes No
matter how disruptive or distasteful a dream is lick it It needs to be tasted That is critical
Time. Time. they chimed Time Who has that kind of time to waste?
I could suppose if embracing
oneselfimproving oneself is perceived a waste of time then yesby all means I agree Dont waste your time
You’re being sarcastic.
No Im not In the future Ill not
waste your time
Don’t be that way!
I shouldnt be that way
However you can be in a way that
Im opposed to
I can assure you Ill be as I am
it wasnt long before he was shunned
for being selfabsorbed that
would bring him around ignored for wasting his time on
fiction
he didnt pay any attention to
them chastising him
he didnt waste his time to say
Fiction My dreams arent fiction I create them
he didnt waste his time to hear
their inevitable counter You didn’t create them. Your subconscious, your unconscious mind created them.
he didnt waste his time to say You
think my mind is not mine Then one could
suppose I would be excused for pissing on your leg because I didnt piss on your leg ITS not my piss he hated the word piss
Now you're being ridiculous. he also didnt waste his time to hear that Don’t be that way!
the dream had run like a short
film shot at night in an unknown wild place he was lost black ribbons dangled webs wrapped his face clung to his nakedness sharp jetblack slants valances
stabs of tree limbs and trunks lashing shrubs lurid queer misshapen bipedal shadows
vaporous presences and the whole of it backed
up by a horrifying soundtrack of pursuit and menace and terror
he could have awakened
himself at any time he suffered it
and suffering his fear his parched mouth and throat his wounds the slick of his blood smearing him painting him he remembered the dream from when he was a
boy and when he was a teenager and a young man then too his personae refused to wakerefused to succumb
fear can be routed by
memory by history
the sun ascended and lightened the sky the blackness purpled and eroding it inexorably gave way to the
wholesome blush and fresh milk of the morn he
slaked his thirst with clear water he
washed his wounds he dabbed them with spirited
aloe and vegetal antiseptic fat parasites feeding on his body shriveled and died
he awoke in his bed
earlier, then I texted myself at 0719, Thursday,
19 7. 18
1457, Thursday, 19 7. 18
