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13 May 2017 @ 02:33 pm
so tell me who i see when i look in your eyes  
my dreams slip past undocumented: that odd movement where such decisions are made, to not document the dream. whether it's because it will take too much time or you've already forgotten it or it didn't seem like anything significant, you know i can't be writing anything down if it isn't significant, and for some reason i believe i can take pride in my ability to discern in advance whether or not a matter is important enough to document.

it's waking logic assaulting the unknown, the completely unknown. sometimes a significant dream won't reveal itself as such for years into the distance, sometimes decades. who knows if it really will anyway, mean something i mean. anyway, i need to check my email so let's not worry about getting that one down.

it's not just time or importance that can stop things. sometimes you're uncomfortable with the thing that you've dreamed. sometimes you're left wondering what kind of emotionally sick person would dream a thing like that, much less write it down? what, so i can return to it years in the distance and marvel at my own metaphysical anguish? or

1) it doesn't make sense, or
2) you don't feel like you remember enough or
3) i don't know!
4) what's the point anyway!
5) there will be some new ones probably tomorrow.

stall, diffuse, distract, deny. it's a process. it's a slow and arduous process. for which we are fundamentally engineered to emphatically subvert. you know? you think: i really don't think there's another alarming epiphany to be had on this matter, and yet, here we are. here we are again.

it's the dream forgotten in the wake of a since forgotten dream that at the time seemed so much more significant, it's the dream you got down but in faint pencil, in an agonizingly tiny hand. it's like i was trying to prove something, how tiny my handwriting could get. it's like years of self-loathing regarding my awkward gaffing horrifically misspelled cursive exploding all over the page in this minuscule and meticulous slow crawl down the agonizing page. either i was trying to prove something or i was trying to make up for all those pages i wasted in my younger years, back when i'd commonly fill an entire sheet with thirteen words. thirteen words, nine of them spelled incorrectly, five of those to a rather excessive extent, three of those meriting an uncertain kind of interpretive theory

what's going on here? what do you think i was getting at? oh, shit, marty? not that marty! you are not telling me this is back to the future mary sue fic

but it is. at a rate of four correctly spelled words on a thirteen-word page. dream text can be a little bit like my seventh grade fascination with trying to place myself (literally) within a loved narrative. i mean, i had something to contribute. i mean, i had a voice in that landscape. i mean, i could vanish into that for hours: and it didn't even bother anyone, nobody else needed to know. i self-medicated with such writing; now i dream. dreams give me an authority in texts i would otherwise have no point of entry into. for instance. so you say. you never can tell.

but then again: i get scared that many of the dreams i've (at times inadvertently) chosen to dis may have been important, may have been a missing piece, part of my buried history abandoned on the study hall floor because when the bell rang i was too eager to get out of that stale silent room and hear people's voices again, even if they weren't talking to me. what a symbol to come back at me, at this point. wonder what that's about?
music: bruce springsteen - tunnel of love