Dreams Don't Mean Anything.

I’m not one to bang on about dreams. I find it dull when people launch into their slumbering escapades. Having said that, allow me to be a little hypocritical. I say ‘a little’ because I will keep it brief, and I will attempt to keep its format fresh and invigorating. I dreamt two nights ago that I lost my mind. This also incorporates itself into my last blog. Seamlessly. It was a dream based in reality. I was in bed, and people were entering my room. They were talking to me but when they spoke. It was as if they had 3 voices, and they were talking backwards. I didn’t understand why. The mother of an old friend of mine was on drugs, and began licking my eyeballs. This probably has nothing to do with my sanity, but it should be mentioned. It was established that I had been missing for 24 hours, but as to my whereabouts, I couldn’t tell you where I’d been. I was in clothes that weren’t mine. Something in my head had snapped. I knew that much. I roamed the streets of Melbourne knowing that I had nowhere to go. I was aware that society had rejected me: That I was now a burden: A sad statistic. Essentially I was swept up in a feeling of helplessness. I felt fucking low. It was awful. I woke to someone screaming outside my window: A usual occurrence on a Friday night. (They’re not shouting at me.) Dream realisation has never been so sweet. But I’ve got this niggle now. I’m afraid I’m going to POP! Stay tuned.