I was drowsing between wakefulness and dream. Lying on my bed, I have this image of a woman crawling from the foot of the bed, into my arms. She nestles against me and I pull her close. Still mostly asleep, I lean over and kiss her neck, on her spine. I murmur, “Mine.” Then go back to sleep with her in my arms.
I woke from a nightmare.
I was in my childhood home. In it, there was a man who lived with his parents. He was both me and not me. Like I was riding in his head and knew what he was going to say but I couldn’t make any decisions.
He lived in the house and it was just him living his life. The whole time there was a vague unease. Like everything and everyone was subtley off. It seemed that this man’s parents flinched from him. Everyone he met seemed to interact kindly to him but all with a vague air of fear almost. And I feel it too. This vague pressing sense of dread fills every action, look or words.
He took his parents out for a drive. And he told them he wanted to show them a house he was going to buy. The father was in real estate and he knew there were no houses in the area up for sale and their fear ratcheted up. He told them not to worry, that he knows of a house about to be available.
He turns a corner in a street in my childhood neighborhood. And points out a large grey house. 2 stories with a covered carport. There are a couple of cars out front and a woman gets out of one. She is crying and has a bundle of red roses in her hand.
Someone from the house meets her on the driveway and they hold each other and cry. There are no ‘for sale’ signs on the house or any indication that it is or will be up for sale. It hits me and the parents at the same time. The only way to know that this house will be for sale soon is to arrange it. This guy who is me and not me has killed whomever is in the house. I’m shocked and incredulous. The parents are scared and less shocked. More resigned. Like this was something that they were hoping wouldn’t happen Again. Like they have been living with this secret monster for years. They drive home.
Then there is one of those jump cuts and the man who is me and not me is talking to someone on his porch. The parents are there but they seem like caricatures. I am no longer in the guys head. I’m watching in the third person and also feel trapped.
The guy who looks like me invites the guy in. He feeds him and paralyzes him. Informing him that his meal was his last guest and did he enjoy it. The parents seem to waver then like they aren’t there. Like I’m in this me/not me’s mind and he sees the parents but they aren’t really there.
He invites in people and kills over and over again. And I’m trapped watching him. I can’t wake up. One of his victims gets away. I, somehow, am then seeing through the victims eyes. I nudge the person to certain places in the house. Places he can barricade. Me/not me hunts him. And victim/me starts to panic. We close a door but it won’t latch and we put a small metal step ladder in front of a door, under the handle but the serial killer hits the door in such a way that it pops it open. We slam the door shut on his hand and he howls in agony. The victim opens the door and pulls the killer halfway in. He pounds the killers skull in with the door pinching the skull like semi hard candy until a part of it breaks away and there is a little boy version of me/not me. There is also a apparition of this person’s mother who talks to the boy. Telling him what to do.
I/victim run and we get away. As we run I, but not the victim, hear the ghost mother telling the boy to eat up. That he needs to heal and eating this brain (his adult brain) will heal him. Like he’s some kind of immortal monster trapped in some pocket dimension reliving his life and death over and over again.
The victim gets far enough away and I wake. Heart pounding. Full blown panic attack. From a nightmare.
I hate waking up from a dream where we were together to find that we are not. That I’m alone. It’s a shock. One I could do without while depressed.
But this won’t last forever. At least I hope not. I’m oddly hopeful. But fuck, maybe I should be.
Just woke up from a nightmare, my kind of nightmare, no maniacs or feelings of dread or anything. I have tripwires are the best way to describe it that will wake me to lucid dreaming if those happen.
This was at a vast mansion party. It was filled with debauchery which I’m normally fine with but there was a pervasive understanding that the people were being forced to participate. There were women wearing heavy chain collars described as soul mates of the person they were with who were forced to perform sexual acts on people other than their desire at the urging of their so called mates and both had hollow eyes empty of desire and this element of silent pleading.
All around broken people perverted love to satisfy physical lust. There was no passion or desire just the physical moment of release without any emotional connection. Anyone in one of the heavy chain collars was meat for the feast. These were all the so-called soul mates of others who had enslaved them and destroyed their will to the point where this was accepted. But there was no joy in it.
This is what the general public views BDSM as. This breaking of the will and using of others for pure physical release. And it is a perversion of all that I’ve enjoyed in the lifestyle. Of everything that I am.
There was no love there. No joy. No pleasure. No consent. Just destruction of sacred bonds and me, a ghost at the feast.
I couldn’t act. Couldn’t stop it, couldn’t twist the dream. I was awake enough to remember. Awake enough to be aware but not awake enough even to save those people.
It was a nightmare. To me, a living hell. A perversion of everything I’ve ever stood for or tried to convey. Sex disguised as love and rotting at the root of those involved. Destroying their ability to see and love. To see love as something other than this fear and destruction. And any that break free of this, few as there was the sense that the only freedom offered was death, there was only isolation and despair. The bedrock belief that none could love them after this experience.
It was a nightmare of epic proportion to me. I wish I could say that I woke of my own volition. But it felt like I was released.
Now, I want to find that dreamscape lucid and burn it down. Even as a dreamscape it is fundamentally wrong. And I can’t allow it to exist. Which may sound like madness. But I’m a dream walker. And it may be madness but, sadly, that doesn’t make it less real.
I have to confront the dream to make myself sane. To not allow the fear of that place win.
I had a dream that I worked for Elon Musk directly. The work was infiltrating and inspecting companies that he owns or has partial stake in. I had parted ways with him amicably to go work for another company but was now bored with that work. I had mastered all of the pieces of a pretty complicated system after a few years and was bored again. I’d stopped working for Musk partially because the work had become too dangerous. But in my current state of boredom it made sense to call him up and see if he had any piece work he needed done. He did. There is a company that was building a underground cargo hauling business. Not underground in the illegal sense but literally underground. They were 200 feet down carving through the bedrock a network of tunnels to haul goods without having to mess about with terrain features, other people, weather issues, speed limits and other problems. It was a huge outlay of time and resources with no immediate or short to mid term profit prospects and it was amazing. He needed me to get into the tunnels and make sure the workers were motivated and that management was not intentionally dragging its feet. I got in and found that the delay was that they had found jade and fossils. They had already routed around the fossils and were looking for a route around the jade. I broke into the office and was going through the paper work when the owner of this company broke through the locked door before I could make good my escape through the side tunnels; He knew me from years before and knew that he was being audited. On the verge of a breakdown he asked what he was doing wrong; what he could fix. I assured him that there was nothing wrong. This was a inspection and they happen at all of Musk’s companies. He doesn’t go in for sending in corporate teams. “Give people time to prepare and even if they don’t mean to, they will end up lying to you,” is what Elon always says. The fossils and the jade are good things. We can route a side tunnel to the fossils and bring in archeologists and that will bring some good publicity should we need it. Plus advancing knowledge is what Elon is all about. The jade is just good business, we mine that and use the profits to offset the costs. Plus with the markets in jade cut off right now due to political unrest we will basically own the market. This venture will see profits for a few quarters which will please the money men that Elon is working with.
Of course, I’m highlighting here, the dream included things like the feel of the tunnels; the steam and the heat, and the infiltration was more harrowing than I am writing but in the dream it was something I had done many times before. Including a backdoor escape route that involved a hidden egress point that the miners did not know about that led to a natural cave system that allowed retreat. But that all felt like old hat. Something that I had done before and not really worth mentioning.
I counseled the owner and calmed him down then left in the normal way. On getting back to my car I find Mr. Musk’s general troubleshooter waiting at the car with a job offer. I was to infiltrate and gain access to something. I say something because I don’t recall what it was. Just that it was important and that I had a plan to get in. I invited some friends in the business. Quasilegal inspection teams being something that does occur at the levels we were playing in. Part infiltration expert, part forensic accountant, part engineer, we were rare but not unknown and the work was always interesting. I was setting up the job and infiltrating a secondary target with the team to find out how we worked together. Then I woke up.
I dreamed that I was at a club as the sun was falling Sunday night. I was invited there by the owners. One of whom sat the door and another was behind the bar. There was a full kitchen serving small dishes and a upper floor where people could rest and sit and have food. It was a gay club and this is important. I’m sitting at the door talking to my friend and people are walking in, hesitant, young. Some afraid to step in, some afraid they will be turned away, rejected here as they are rejected elsewhere. Snubbed here as they are snubbed elsewhere. But my friend smiles and nods and they are welcomed in. The club night is called Church. In walks a big burly guy, not bad looking but rough. And he turns to my friend and says “it’s a bit blasphemous to have a club called Church on Sunday.” My friend just shrugs and waves him in. But I can’t let it go. I say “We call it church because this is the place we are loved and accepted. Here we aren’t judged for who we love. Here we aren’t told we are monsters or unworthy. Here we are free. THIS is our church where we are free to worship as we please with those that please us.” My friend looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. Because I don’t generally confront people about their bullshit. Then he turns to the guy and says, “Yeah, what he said.” After sitting the door for awhile we go in and we have fun and dance. We are not the stereotype. We are not good dancers, but we are happy, enthusiastic and free. A young gentleman whom I am acquainted with slips his hand across my shoulder, his hand resting on my chest. I place my hand on his and say, “Hello, my love.” I say it impishly, playfully. But he pulls his hand back like I burned him. I turn around to see his shocked expression and I can’t help but laugh. My friend gives me a look and we smile and laugh as the young man disappears, fleeing. Whether from our laughter or the shock, I don’t know. My friend has the DJ put on a record and tells the room with a shake of the head and a the back of the hand to his forehead that He’s sorry but he had to. Then the beat of Gloria Gaynor, I will survive comes up and we groan and laugh and people get up from their seats and dance like silly happy fools. And then I wake.
I had a dream of a woman sitting straddling my knee and resting her head against my chest. It was the most at peace I’ve felt in weeks. I consider it a true dream walk as where my dream was prior to that moment was completely in a dreamscape. I hope, whoever she is, she felt as I did. At peace, at home.
I just had the worst dream I’ve ever had.
I was in my home city but it was as if everything had become run down and shady. All of the apartments buildings were crackhouses and drug dens. The businesses were pawn shops and thinly disguised brothels. I was at one of the apartments retrieving my cat Dylan (Thomas not Bob). I was walking to my car when I was interfered with. A group of mobsters were around me and were trying to extort me regarding some other piece of business. They escalated to a physical confrontation. I pulled my blade and cut them to ribbons. I was going for the last and most dangerous and somehow a person I love got between me and my quarry as I was delivering a killing blow. I saw the look of surprise on her face and then her throat parted. Everything in the dream came to a full stop. I screamed for minutes, for hours, for eternity. Holding her in my arms. The cops showed up, too late, and with her dead in my arms, I went after the cops hoping they would kill me. They didn’t. I was kept alive for some reason. I was trying to taunt them into taking the shot when I woke. I felt the pain in my heart as if it had been ripped out. My throat felt like I had been screaming but people in the house say no. Even now, I’m haunted by the image. I would do anything to make it not happen. Even though it was ‘only’ a dream.
I have this reoccurring feeling that I sleep with someone in my arms. Their head resting on my chest, hearing the beating of my heart. We’re home. Together. We are each other’s home.
Maybe it’s just a dream. Maybe it’s something else. It’s one of the few things that comfort my sad heart. I hope, if they are real, it comforts them too.
I just had the worst dream.
I sometimes dream of other paths I could have taken, other words I could have said.
And I dreamed we were deliriously happy. Because I’d said the right thing in the right way. I did not spin out. Wasn’t depressed, so I said the thing that made all the difference. In the dream you were looking at a sign that said 67 or 62 miles to Phoenix. Whatever I’d said got you moving towards me like two magnets with an irresistible pull. I’d love to know what I said. I’d say it now. Even knowing that now is probably too late.