Dreams

"What do dreams mean?"

That's a question that has a place in everybody's mind, or almost everybody's mind. The very word "dream" is often related with some utopian state which people wishes to achieve, even if that's not likely to happen. People "dream" about becoming rich and famous, or finding their "One" and getting married, have a family and live happily ever after. Some dream about getting laid with some extraordinarily beautiful person, or get to lay over 1000 people, getting power in the company or in the political life. Some "dream" about getting away with murder, either figurative or literal speaking.

Some people think that dreams are the gates of foreseeing, and that the future can be told from properly decyphering the message bottled in the hazed webs of dreams. Others take the psichoanalytical approach and believe that dreams tell you things about themselves. Burried traumas and dark secrets.

I believe dreams to be a sort of mind-gate where you are receptive to many things, both about yourself and about the outer life.

Today I read Dragonfly's entry, where she spoke about her dreams often being nice. Well, my dreams are hardly "dreams", but pretty much most of them are nightmares, and even the nice ones are nightmares. (Yes, I believe in dreams I'm a natural born Gothic Writer.) My dreams often depict gory scenes like beheadings, brandings, body carvings, and even live burials.

Unlike a friend of mine, Pilar, who has been killed in her dreams, I've never been killed, even though I have been buried alive (once). I, however, have often killed people in dreams, some of those murders being particularly enjoyable.

The matter of my dreams often find their way to light through my writings, delievered from the prison of my psyche and into the chaotic, murky land of words and the jumble of other many minds. How many of you do that? What do people do with their dreams? build up some "dream-journal", or maybe someone even compose a grimoire or a "book of shadows" with it? Do people ignore them or vivisect them to find the key to their inexisting happiness? The usual code used for reading dreams, where birth is death, death is marriage and marriage is birth. Where the falling of teeth means problems and the falling of hair means betrail.

I've dreamed of people who have died, who mean the world to me, who could make me walk into Hell to seek their deliverance, gamble with my own salvation to secure theirs, be ready to give up my chances to give them a second chance, just to see them happy. Fuck, I'm such a Dean...

I dream of people in my past too. Dead or alive. For some strange reason, some of them appear usually at this one floor, dark wood house, where the painting, something between light sky blue and aqua-green is heavily chipping away leaving an overwhelming amount of darkened old wood exposed. The air is moist, carrying the scent of mouldy beams. Naked walls and amateur made doorframes in thick wood all over, no ceiling as the beams of the roof are visible, cracks here and there let the air and the cloudy sky light come through. Rooms open to other rooms, some around one huge mainroom, and others opeming from other rooms. There's not one hallway, but only room after room, after room. There's no outside, even if there are windows. The outside is a huge greyish whiteness, much like the sky when it's about to rain.

I didn't expect to find him, Dmitrij, in there. Long hair, blond and ... curly. His hair has always been flax, but here he was, tall, slim and sporting long curls around his face. There was contempt, both from me and from him. Our glance said everything. Annoyance, resentment, anger, thirst for revenge, or in my side, the demonic desire to make him fall and suffer again. Tie him down and lash his face, his eyes with his own belt until the flesh of his eyelids thins to a bloody veil, and the muscle is gone, rendering him forever blind.

However, aside from shared thoughts we could both hear even though they were never spoken, we never got to torture. Well, he has never been prone to it. I'm the Dungeon Master, and have always been. Thoughts flew from my mind to his and viceversa, carrying hateful, disdainful messages.

'can't get rid of you, can I?'
'you are a nightmare'
'can barely stand the sight of you'
'why don't you just go away from my life'
'you are a hurtful bitch, you do know that, do you?'
'go away, smoke away, die'
'monster'
'of all people, why didn't you commit suicide?'

Hate, wrath brought us somehow to a kiss. A kiss to a caress, a caress to fall on a rackety cot and go at it. Sex fueled by dispair... amazing. can't even begin to explain the monstruous pleasure you get from something like that. Whether such things only live in "dreams", in the depths of hate invested nightmares, whether they reveal an unfinished business, a latent desire or the thirst for acts that would prove to be morally criminal, my nightmares, no matter how tortuous, how tormenting, are... exquisite.