Not more than an hour after finally falling asleep last night, I woke up again.
Uneasy, disturbed and awed by lingering images. I never just snap out of dreams, I move away from them, making a transition from dream to wakefulness that has no clear border. I wake up from the dream, still living it as it fades.
The dreams I wake from in that fashion never fades totally. I remember them clearly, could describe emotions and thoughts I had in dreams after many years. The dream I had last night is not something I can describe. Ever. Too bizarre, too disturbing, too twisted to have been created in a mind I assumed was more or less sane.
It woke me into hyper alertness and disconcerted thoughtfulness. I find that distinguishing a dream from a nightmare is not as easy as I once might have thought it was. All my dreams are disconcerting and vaguely disturbing but I never wake up screaming. Who does that anyways? Do people, other than small children actually scream when waking from nightmares?
After wandering aimlessly through a silent house for some time, I knew where the inspiration or cause of my dream had come from and it proves just once more that I should not listen to radio, not read news, not listen to all of those morbidity loving friends of mine so much. Whether I can see it or not, I know they revel in the stories they hear about freak accidents and horrific disasters of nature and humanity. They shiver in delight when they tell me what they heard, and I listen. Morbidly curious myself.
Is it the thought of actually transplanting a face that triggered my deep unease I'm wondering. That was the story I was told. I wish I hadn't listened. Why do I do that when I know I should not?
My dream was about faces. About faces turned into formless clumps of reddish greasy clay. More than one, less than several, and I watched as they were eaten, chewed on, changed for a reason I never quite understood until I woke. The last face to be used in this sinister ritual was mine. A new face was to be born out of many, but I never saw the new face. I only saw the last stage before it would be complete.
Strange how a pair of red glints of pure menace embedded in lumpy glistening clay can still haunt me so long after.
It is also strange that the colorful feathery robes flowing behind the two young girls assisting throughout the ritual haunts me even more. They ran on light feet, frightened and submissive out of the way when they had finished. It bothers me that I don't understand why they were in my dream. They didn't belong there and that, more than anything my dream world throws at me, makes me doubt my sanity.
So I make another solemn but futile promise to myself. Just don't listen, just don't.