Dreamy & Delusional

Soundtrack: Kent - Hagnesta Hill. Now, I rarely write about my head. I mean, I write about myself, my life, my Loves (and loverboys), my style, my desires. Of strange and varied kinds. But I don't often write about the things taking place inside my head. Today, however, I'll make a justified exception. Mental events occured, seeming worthy of being mentioned here. I was talking to my mother on the phone, and I was telling her about this crazy dream I had last night. Really fast, wild and completely nonsensical, of course. Typical. But I had an exceptionally clear memory of it when I woke up. So I kept thinking, and when I called her; after her asking me how I am, and my telling her I'd had a busy day as usual, nothing so important; it dawned on me again. I told her, wait, something extraordinary had indeed taken place. Or; a little out of the ordinary - that is. I'm always quite affected by my dreams. They seem to linger on somehow, and it takes hours and hours before the impressions they provide finally let go. The rapid, changing, confusing visions sort of amplify over the hours; during breakfast, throughout the morning; and are consequently attached to my skin, surrounding me, like I keep walking within the dream all day. Very creepy. But I then realized that talking about it, describing it, listening to my mother informing me that it was all very weird and didn't quite make sense in any way that should have me all worried; this seriously helped. Whereafter I decided to have a go at something further self-controlling, constructive and even more elaborating; writing theme-related poetry. Processing the dream images. Forcing them to leave me (alone) and enter the universe of prose. And verse. Moreover, I found an old first chapter that I'd written ages ago, which I adapted, and which also concerned a funny dream sequence - fitting strangely well with the rest. Thus, the first part isn't so much with regard to last night, but to my nightmares in general. Or, well, nightmares - I don't know. Maybe it's a way of getting rid of stuff, after all. Could it be that I have two ways of shunning the bad incidents in life; escaping them in my dreams, and leaving them at ease between the lines? Now, maybe that isn't so healthy, but it obviously works. Effectively too, I'd say. By the way, if you should wonder: the dream itself consisted of me running, as you will learn from reading the text below, through long corridors in a house where I definately haven't been before, and being nearly killed by insane and beastly watchmen who where determined to knock me down, for some reason. Then, I ran out and got a cup of coffee at a local café with one table, where I was offered a piece of apple cake I argued I couldn't eat, because I'd already had a piece of chocolate cake that day - and dessert - which was actually true for yesterday. (This is when my mother started to crack up.) Finally, some old hag looking like an extremely lethal and heavily made-up version of Maggie Smith came and paid for my coffee, gave me a suitcase and told me to keep on fleeing. So I did. Thankfully, I woke up shortly afterwards. As for the why and how of everything, I have no idea whatsoever - and if anybody reading this is any good at subconscious interpretation, I don't want to hear it either. I have a feeling, this is not positive news. I'll rather live on in my ordinary, ignorant bliss. Ladies and Gents, after an introduction that - admittedly - seems a bit poetic as well, here goes: The Ultimate Nightmare Poem. Or whatever.

"Tricks and treats" - from a dream of nightmares, and with a slight reference to the forthcoming Halloween. Favourite time of year. Weee; pumpkin pie and costume making!
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, and always dreaming on. Dreaming ought to be good, even when it's bad. I think in peculiar and inexplicable ways. As always. And maybe I should consider what I am currently showering upon others; my beloved readers; pontentially traumatizing them forever and giving them sleepless nights - frightened that they'll be as nutters as yours truly. Fear not, I'm not that insane. Just a wee bit fruity. I like 80's pop, collect fluffy things, dress like Billie Piper and adore MIKA; that's not even remotely looney. I mean, come on. Let's not underestimate the Power of Purple Dancing Shoes. And a big grin to go along!

I dreamt that I was dying
in a schoolyard far away
Was held by someone long forgot
and resting cheek to cheek
I found an old sensation
waiting for the bells to toll

I dreamt that I was running
from a group of faceless foes
Was chased by someone unpredicted
hasting without panting, shocked,
In hallways, through old houses
wooden doors and labyrinths

I dreamt that I was tortured
in a bath-tub, with balloons
a figure, male, above my nape
His hand descending on my neck
cold fingernails, like scythes

I dreamt that I was tested
and unprepared must I then fail
Thereafter, there was blackout
I reckoned I'd have passed
To sense an unaccounted happinnes for all
Atrocities I will and cannot recognize

I dreamt I was escaping
from imprisonment of sorts
Evading from a fallacy
emerging out into a back yard
Behold the lack of guards
and contemplate the last resorts

I dreamt that I was dreaming
having paced all night, I died
My subconscious works elliptic
I come back to opened gates
So I've learnt to take another path
be no more scared, tonight