Violent outbursts

Violent outbursts in my dreams.

Seemingly the only consistency in my dreamworld since I have arrived here.

Somehow at odds with our set dreaming time, in which everyone else dreams something of undeniable beauty into fruition, or talks of morality, of the world of their longing, or else observes the magnificence of the landscape. It’s as if my subconscious has accepted a challenge to confront me with the most terrifying outbursts, in which I am the perpetrator.

Fighting Japanese gangsters with my parents inside caravans with infinite doors into new spaces. We have guns. The caravans appear tiny as we enter and somehow unfold to reveal never-ending passageways to new rooms; it’s as if the world has turned into a caravan. Around each twist and turn is another marksman, waiting patiently to mark our fate.

The next night I’m in a library. The silence is disturbed. It has been invaded by Russians. They attack in the most explosive and obnoxious of ways, as if they have somehow misunderstood the etiquette of the library; or else they haven’t noticed the glaringly obvious and ironically loud “QUIET PLEASE” signs littering the walls. I climb to the top of the building with a machine gun that I have apparently acquired; somehow arriving in the most precarious of positions, dangling from a flimsy fire escape that has almost certainly not been health and safety certified. The library is soon annihilated; but somehow despite my pathetic stature, my extreme lack of strength and vast inexperience with weaponry, I escape the attackers and somehow defeat them.

I wonder why my subconscious has given our attackers nationalities.

Another dream.

My van door is open. I awaken, cold and soaked through from the storm that has inconsiderately found its way into my inner sanctuary, my sacred space. I shut the van door. I awaken again, the van door has somehow re-opened. Suddenly, I’m in the midst of a fight with an unidentified ferocious animal.

In each instance, I am inexplicably the unlikely victor.

Lines are blurred. I am no longer aware of what is a dream and what is reality.

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writer, musician, artist, joiner

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