thejunipertree (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thejunipertree) wrote2004-02-06 02:34 am
thejunipertree) wrote2004-02-06 02:34 am
Entry tags:
of dreams
My dreams are so vivid, so enveloping, that I frequently wake up and believe them to be real for many moments after my eyes have opened. It's a disconcerting feeling, to suddenly have reality unfold and dissipate in the space of ten seconds.
I have dreamed of the past and woken with tears on my face. I have dreamed of things to come and believed them to be nonsensical images, until they came to pass (remind me to tell you of the time I was in high school and I dreamed of two boys in the honours English class, which I was not in, playing tennis at dusk in the parking lot of a large hotel). I've dreamt of people that I've known, never to be seen again. And of people I've yet to meet. For years, I dreamt of the same person continually. Never actually knowing them in the waking world. Then one day, I met them. And my world was forever changed.
I dream constantly of the lwa. Sometimes the dreams are meaningful and they leave me with knowledge that I desperately need or comfort for me to cling to in my darkest days. And sometimes the dreams are scattered and careless, with no real definition that I can accurately pinpoint.
Houses figure predominantly in my dreams. I frequently find myself in a large and rambling house, seemingly never-ending. There are rooms that I find myself drawn to, yet am terrified to even place my fingers upon the door. Some rooms are inhabited by regular people and some have invisible things inside of them, that I know would sink their teeth into me if I ever gave them the opportunity. There are places behind the walls of these houses that I always find myself trapped in, sometimes there are doors I can't get through because they're too small.
Some protagonists in my dreams aren't even really me, though it feels like such since it's coming from my eyes, my voice, my blood and my skull. I dream of these others' lives, their hearts. Some are broken things, while others are so full of joy that I can barely shake off their skins when I leave my bed.
Many of my dreams have formed the structure of feverishly written stories that so occupy my every waking thought that it is difficult to pull myself away for even a moment's respite. Some dreams won't leave me alone until I write them down.
I had only heard of your death five days ago.This day, the sixth one, found me in your bedroom, alone and mourning. I sat at your desk, my bare feet curling against the carpet, and ran my fingers through the multitude of envelopes I had found in the upper right drawer. Shockingly, there was one in the middle of the pile that bore my name and a very recent date.
In it was a letter written in your own hand, detailing that if I were reading this, it meant that you had been taken. That your death had finally come at their hands. And that I was to take all the anger and grief I was now feeling and direct it at the ones responsible until there wasn't a single one left standing. You wrote that you knew I was capable of doing such a thing, you knew how single minded I could be. You wrote of the plans you had been making for us, the things you had wanted, and the life you had desired to live after this was all over. You signed the letter with love. Something which was never before said between the two of us, yet communicated unspoken.
I sat for what seemed like hours with this scrap of paper in my hands, sat until the shadows lengthened on the wall. I read the words over and over, each one a hammer strike against the walls of my heart.
Finally, I stood up to retrieve the cigarettes I had left on your bedside table. Drew one from the pack and fumbled for my lighter. Before I could bring it to my lips and light it, I heard your voice in the hall calling my name.
I turned slowly, expecting it to be nothing more then a ghost of you. Much like the shades of your self that I'd been running from for the past five days. Instead, I found you filling the door frame. Standing there, with your eyes on me. Alive.
I dropped the unlit cigarette on the floor and cried helplessly against your shirt, as you wound your arms around me.
I have dreamed of the past and woken with tears on my face. I have dreamed of things to come and believed them to be nonsensical images, until they came to pass (remind me to tell you of the time I was in high school and I dreamed of two boys in the honours English class, which I was not in, playing tennis at dusk in the parking lot of a large hotel). I've dreamt of people that I've known, never to be seen again. And of people I've yet to meet. For years, I dreamt of the same person continually. Never actually knowing them in the waking world. Then one day, I met them. And my world was forever changed.
I dream constantly of the lwa. Sometimes the dreams are meaningful and they leave me with knowledge that I desperately need or comfort for me to cling to in my darkest days. And sometimes the dreams are scattered and careless, with no real definition that I can accurately pinpoint.
Houses figure predominantly in my dreams. I frequently find myself in a large and rambling house, seemingly never-ending. There are rooms that I find myself drawn to, yet am terrified to even place my fingers upon the door. Some rooms are inhabited by regular people and some have invisible things inside of them, that I know would sink their teeth into me if I ever gave them the opportunity. There are places behind the walls of these houses that I always find myself trapped in, sometimes there are doors I can't get through because they're too small.
Some protagonists in my dreams aren't even really me, though it feels like such since it's coming from my eyes, my voice, my blood and my skull. I dream of these others' lives, their hearts. Some are broken things, while others are so full of joy that I can barely shake off their skins when I leave my bed.
Many of my dreams have formed the structure of feverishly written stories that so occupy my every waking thought that it is difficult to pull myself away for even a moment's respite. Some dreams won't leave me alone until I write them down.
I had only heard of your death five days ago.This day, the sixth one, found me in your bedroom, alone and mourning. I sat at your desk, my bare feet curling against the carpet, and ran my fingers through the multitude of envelopes I had found in the upper right drawer. Shockingly, there was one in the middle of the pile that bore my name and a very recent date.
In it was a letter written in your own hand, detailing that if I were reading this, it meant that you had been taken. That your death had finally come at their hands. And that I was to take all the anger and grief I was now feeling and direct it at the ones responsible until there wasn't a single one left standing. You wrote that you knew I was capable of doing such a thing, you knew how single minded I could be. You wrote of the plans you had been making for us, the things you had wanted, and the life you had desired to live after this was all over. You signed the letter with love. Something which was never before said between the two of us, yet communicated unspoken.
I sat for what seemed like hours with this scrap of paper in my hands, sat until the shadows lengthened on the wall. I read the words over and over, each one a hammer strike against the walls of my heart.
Finally, I stood up to retrieve the cigarettes I had left on your bedside table. Drew one from the pack and fumbled for my lighter. Before I could bring it to my lips and light it, I heard your voice in the hall calling my name.
I turned slowly, expecting it to be nothing more then a ghost of you. Much like the shades of your self that I'd been running from for the past five days. Instead, I found you filling the door frame. Standing there, with your eyes on me. Alive.
I dropped the unlit cigarette on the floor and cried helplessly against your shirt, as you wound your arms around me.
Wow
Re: Wow
i dig your new background, miss.
Re: Wow
It's weird, I was thinking about it seconds after I realized I was awake. It's almost like I could draw the world out with me. I wonder if this is where our concept of eden comes from.
Re: Wow
Explain further?
Re: Wow
Re: Wow
i dig your new background, miss.
Thankee!
I found it on some website. The girl who made it says that it's 'authentic 17th century lace'. I didn't care much about that, I just thought it was pretty. ^_^
Re: Wow
I think it does.
And I have the same feeling on a frequent basis.
Re: Wow
no subject
Re:
no subject
Re:
no subject
oh could i go on from there hehehe
it usually involves lipstick, sheep, a blender, and a midget tranny named Butch
what do you think this means?