Tomorrow is the hurricane, I guess. If you’re not from the east coast, although I suspect most reading this are—for the few who read it, that is, though I have no idea who that is nowadays, or if anyone is—if you’re not from the east coast…I have no idea where the fuck I was going with this sentence so I’m just going to end it here.
Anyway, natural disasters only excite me because there’s always a chance the apocalypse is coming and I will be proven right and then I can live in some ultra cool apocalyptic world, or die with everyone. I’m not being morbid or emo or depressing—I’ve just always been fascinated with doomsday-type events and ideas. And since everything strikes in threes, according to some nonexistent quasi-fantasy truth-nontruth, something horrible is bound to happen after this hurricane, at least along the east coast. Earthquake followed by hurricane followed by…zombies?
If it is zombies, I’m telling you right now, I’m going to be pissed because I haven’t bought my katana yet…and I’m actually quite serious about this. Once I can afford it, I’m buying a real katana because it’s one of the best weapons and defenses against zombies, and of course I’m terrified of the zombie apocalypse and how realistic it actually is; people who haven’t done the research really don’t know. So I’ll be loping off you’re head when you’re a zombie. Really. The first thing that pops into my head when I enter any mall is that zombies are going to start charging at me and I’m going to be eaten. I’m entirely honest right now.
--
To be even more honest, I’m most excited for the hurricane due to my love of storms. A lack of power doesn’t concern me. All I do is write and read anyway, and I essentially live in darkness since I never have my lights on to begin with.
I just want to stand outside tomorrow when and if the world is crazy and take it all in.
Storms have a way of amping me up; they let me lose control. Since I often have extremely good control of my emotions—even more so now, after I pledged to never, ever get as drunk –or drunk in general—as I got during last Friday’s debacle, and when I promise myself something I keep that promise; my willpower is absurd—since my emotions are so tightly reigned in, it can be good to just go nuts. You know, wandering around in a storm, in the forest, and screaming and smashing sticks. Yeah, I’m not crazy.
Also, some of you could be thinking, wait, Michael…so few people have ever called me Michael, and 99% women; I don’t know if that’s strange or not. Wait, Michael you have horrible, seemingly self-destructive control of your emotions when it comes to certain things, and I know what those certain things are.
Well, yes, random voice, that’s true. You have a point…but just one point.
--
I think it’s the wind, or maybe the rain, or the clouds. I don’t know. I’m not sure how to explain it, when I can usually explain myself so well. If there’s no lightning, I really want to go kayaking tomorrow, as I live on a pond. I know. It sounds rather insane, perhaps suicidal, but I’m a great swimmer, and more so, I often take stupid, physically dangerous risks. Some people are just born to take them, I guess. Between not valuing my safety all that highly and appreciating pain—as long as I do not shatter bones—risks amuse me.
Tonight, for example, bored at work from about 7-9, when customers finally stopped showing and my co-worker was drunk out of his mind, I began tossing a box cutter up into the air and catching it with the blade out. If you’re good you come away without cuts. I’m decent, as I often twirl pens and whatnot and I have good hand coordination, so I only bled about six times, three of those cuts requiring Band-Aids since they wouldn’t stop bleeding. One is rather bad, since I admittingly aimed too high, like twenty feet in the air, and sliced my thumb open on a razorblade falling from the Heavens. This is how I entertain myself at work when there’s nothing to do. I also forget where I was going with this, or why I’m here, other than to express brief encounters with extreme boredom.
--
I’m scattered lately. Thoughts, that is, as sleeping has suddenly gotten more difficult once again. I’m dreaming more again, and too many of the dreams are not at all pleasant.
One involved me at the gym. You would think a dream taking place at a gym can’t be a nightmare, but I had the dream five or six days ago and it’s still really bothering me. A lot. I think about it way too much. Enough so that the dream has already repeated itself, and it not only haunts me, but pisses me off.
That’s one of many things I don’t understand about our subconscious. So here I am trying not to think of certain things, right? Right. And I’m doing a good job and going about my days and nights and doing all that somewhat fun stuff, right? Yes. And then my subconscious says, no, you’re getting off too easy, too soon, so I’m going to give you not the worst dream you can imagine, but something that will really, really fuck your morning up, ruin your entire day, and stay with you for a long, long time to come. I’m going to fuck you sideways. I’m going to return you to the past, to a reality you have actually lived, but I’m going to make it so much more painful and disturbing, and what’s my reason? I have no reason. I’m just a subconscious ruining your fun.
But as I’ve said, I believe all dreams have a reason and a thin thread of reality, the past and future and present. There’s something in our dreams that we must take from them, and learn, and grow, even if it deeply bothers us, which this dream is doing to me right now.
It’s odd, though. The gym is one of the few places I love, where I can separate myself from everything and everyone, including my thoughts. However, there’s been times when the gym has…been unsettling—this is vague, I know, but I need it to be vague, and I’m sorry for that, really—and lately my subconscious threw me back into an equally bad, if not more so, version of the past.
A reason, right? I want to believe that, but it’s hard since nothing good has come of this. Other than fodder for my already overly taxed mind.
--
I had another dream. This one I can explain in great detail—it was one of the most vivid dreams I’ve ever had and it’s not nearly as personal to me or anyone else as the other dream, the gym dream.
I woke up in the backseat of a black car. Leaving the car, I found myself in a very dark and dirty garage. The walls and floor all dank stone stained by unknown substances, crowded by rusted tools, but across the garage the far wall had been knocked away, leaving an opening into a jungle. I found two empty bottles beside the car and thought to myself, well these bottles shouldn’t be here, so I decided to bring them into the jungle and drop them into the water, into one of the deep holes where the ground falls away. So I leave the garage and enter the jungle, in water up to my waist in some points, tiny land islands in other places, the tall green ferns growing into the water so that the ground is constantly sloping up and down. In the corner; yes, the jungle has a corner where a wall is, I drop the bottles and turn around to go back to sleep in the car. Only now I see a very old man with a dark cloak and long white hair wandering through the jungle with a small tiger on a lease. Only the tiger has a very long neck, far longer than it should. I hope he doesn’t see me—from the beginning I’m terrified of the old man and his tiger and I know I should avoid him at any cost—but when I start back, he wanders, so slowly, into my path no matter what, even when I cross back deeper into the jungle multiple times and try to arch back around. He’s always there, in my path, someway, and always motioning for me to go, to turn my back on him. Finally, when I see that he turns his back on me, I start madly sprinting for the car, knowing I’ll be fine if I can get inside and lock the doors. But when I start to run, I feel him running behind me, chasing me, and I’m nearly awake at this point filled with terror. I feel him and the tiger transforming behind me, almost becoming real, and I sprint into the garage already knowing it’s too late. I turn, and the old man is little more than a shadow holding the baby tiger, but the tiger suddenly grows in his arms and leaps at me, cornering me, and when the tiger is in the air, I wake up screaming in reality, thrashing awake and smashing my head on my wall.
This happens more than it should. Last night I woke up with a huge gash on my knuckle. I often cut my ankles when I sleep…I don’t know how, and more than once I’ve bruised my arms and chests. Nightmares. Fun.
I don’t know what the tiger dream means other than I might be running from something, that I fear change, perhaps? Or want change? I don’t know. Either way, that’s not the dream, or type of dream, that truly bothers me. Sure, I woke up and couldn’t fall back to sleep without reading, but the fear faded within hours.
It’s the more realistic dreams, the dreams with people from my real life, at least at some point in time, that are sort of driving me insane. I thought they were over, and now they are back, three dreams this week, although two are so brief, nothing more than a single moment in time, but vexing just the same.
I had planned not to blog tonight, or maybe a few sort sentences. But sometimes words must be said. Whoever said silence is golden was obviously wrong. At least sometimes.
No comments:
Post a Comment