about a half an hour after sleep claims me…

Thirty minutes is about all it seems to take for the psychotic part of my brain to take over. For the past several nights, I have been having the strangest dreams. A few nights ago I went to Europe with Josh, two of my friends and two complete strangers who were on their honeymoon. Another night I was whisked away to the top of a mountain. I was alone, and I was singing hymns. Then all of a sudden I stood up and jumped off the mountain and as I was plummeting to earth, I realized I could fly. I took off over meadows and lakes and valleys and hills. I ended up back at the mountain. I sat down, and fell asleep. Then last night I had a dream about a night when I was about eight years old. It had been completely buried in my memory, but last night it escaped into my dreams. I was so small. I was tired. I was sleeping in a room that was not my own. There was a boy there, and he played the piano for me. In my dream I closed my eyes and was taken away to a grand ball. In the dream within my dream I was a princess. Then I opened my eight year old eyes, and he stood there by my bed holding a gun. I screamed that this is not how the memory went, that he was not supposed to shoot me. He looked at me and said, “You’re right, you’re supposed to shoot me.” He handed me the gun, and I started to cry. Then I woke up…

I hate dreams. I know people that say that they wished they dreamed. Those people are foolish. My dreams suck. They feel real, and sometimes they contort reality to the point that I can’t remember what is fact and what is fiction. My reality is shrouded in clouds after weeks of such dreams. I feel lost and tortured. I feel… I guess I’m not sure what I feel, and what I perceive to feel. I just exist.

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