I knew, in that moment, that I was dreaming. This was not my beautiful living room. This was not my loving family. I've travelled far and wide in this world of dreams, but never have I held the horror that I there held, so close to my breast. It was there, distinct on the horizon, the future nightmare of rutting, chasing perfumed ladies, and relishing nothing more than a sporting contest between people I've never even met. It was so clean and disinfectant, so thin and distant, that I couldn't imagine it being what would some day consume my being; what would pass for closeness and warmth in a cold, dismal world.
It was so white and well-furnished, with fuzzy everything and deep-pile carpets. I'm more of a spartan hardwood fellow, or I thought. Everything was so soft and so settled; I had to get out before I was overcome with the urge to overturn everything and restore the familiar chaos to the landscape of my mind. I had to run, and so I ran, without looking or even hoping to escape.
And so I hit the wall.
It wasn't a mental wall, or a physical one, entirely, at least. I hit the wall of sleep and was knocked violently awake, where I stayed pretty much until it was time for work. Only after an hour or so did I skirt the light sort of half-dreaming Stage II sleep, and a half hour of that carried me stealthily past my first alarm to drop me in the waking world five minutes after it started my CD playing. But I guess it was something of a physical wall, because I physically couldn't return to sleep. I can't remember the last time I'd awakened so sharply (and I'm a light sleeper) to be so clearly awake. But it was completely without drama, even if this entry isn't; I was simply awake and vivid, moreso than I am even now after eight hours of wakefullness. I wanted desperately to go back to sleep, to remember what had sent me so violently into waking, but I couldn't. I was completely
wakerife. =DWell, okay. It wasn't =D at the time. It was much more >=O than anything else. I don't enjoy being frustrated, for the most part because I am not used to it. I usually isolate a goal, and then achieve it. And so, as I got to work, I started to draw on the loose tendrils of other-memory, recalling things at a slant, and inferring what the dream was from circumstance and wisps of thought. I was rather like Perseus (or Kid Icarus) fighting Medusa through via the reflection in his shield, as I realized that my mind had supressed the memory for reason of its sheer revulsive power. And so as I collected the thoughts, I recorded them into an e-mail which I sent to myself from work before I headed out to lunch. And, with some additions at the bottom, but little embellishment, I've brought us here.
But as I isolate and acheive a goal, I feel a sense of victory. Why, then, should this dream come to me? Is this a warning? As much as I want a happy family life, I want it on my own terms, not in some creepily American Gothic standardized and normalized fashion. Be careful what you wish for, I guess. I'm cautioned not to be single-minded in my pursuit, so that I will not one day have to ask myself the questions whose answers are the true horror; the sort of which H.P. Lovecraft himself never wrote.
