Madalaine in Blushed Cheeks

In the mist,

By the window; lays a thoughtful Jezebel,

There is a reason; bland digestion,

In the quarry concise catering

To any treason; to any tow, any tailored talesworth thinker.

She is a giver; she is a mistress; in the womb she swells of syrup,

Might be narrow; might be tight, even in the thinnest flesh, dear.

Sight of fasting; yet she’s peering,

Piles of garments on the bedside.

I’m an object- clothed in human; gently rubbing westward gleaming,

Hark the handsome,

Hark the holder,

Here to stay beneath these covers; warm and quiet; shy and wanting,

By the quilt in parting olives; never must I leave this moonlight,

Here I must feel times of cherish.

 

 

To drink the potions lest we fall in the pit

To drink from potions by the jug,

and see the flavors.. Tire of this state; this Beckoning of females; lest we mate?

gems in the ruby slush dogma and shiny,

this is where they see me soggy eyed strut by the dame; pained by illness in the groin… Forever lest we mate, Mrs. Understanding and Mrs. Understood; you will see.

tis the winter of unearthing and the pilgrims; they are of Gentiles too… And like the wave of rationale these queers are brooding mediocrity, shame and wisdomless gambits: game of the flavorless! Game of the rung out! Gentiles beheaded and enter all that is coming!

(All that is coming which is of the dogmas’ mouth.. The wendigo hounding in snow)

And women too; golden rods in their slough which is of sacred geometry (for you and me) and her! And them! Therein shall we go.

digging through the fig and river drumming to the desperate sound of vermin in the juniper through thunder;

while the kept of little women in the cupboard of this place we call the pit transforms three in one (and one in three) thereof; pits of Little Mexico and Caspe, a vast array of what potions do we not; in vain however, do we must.

one stumbling rock is the way of a following; three must I go to bed… Four in denial of the five gypsy whores and the sixth rock stumbled past the hollow into the earth… And therein I did see him, entity black like licorice cut by the gow; blades in and out…

Passcow did not yowl when he thudded against the black; cold now…

Auto de fe.

The Sentimental Clockmaker

I read a quote from John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress which reads as so:

” To go back is nothing but death; to go forward is fear of death, and life everlasting beyond it. I will yet go forward.”

Therein, I did go forward and forward until I was the age of fifty seven. The hairs on my back were slanted and the brows on my head were fervent and my boot heels were torn and my sleeves were mangled just as the sleeves of the wise man named Ken Stanley when I first saw him. Although, that was when I was steadfast and eager; if I did my math right, it was 2,478 days ago.

I could have not drank from the cup of wine and bought my life back where I would spend my days chasing ego. I could be seeking freedom in worldly riches right now with a chiseled pale by my side and a glass of septic Nile in my hand in Budapest.

I found myself instead sipping poor man’s wine from clothed canteens and glassy round jugs in Normandy. I looked for the wise man who pointed directions at me and even backtracked a bit and still it was to no avail.

I am not a seeker, believer or a follower; leader or knower. I am a clockmaker, lonely and faithless. Stanley told me that I would face a plough just like Christian did. He told me I would meet many vermin along the way and I did, including a spiteful one named Elaine. Boy, how I fell for her to the pits.

She appeared before me as a fragile thinker, curious and deep. It was only afterwards when I tried to get closer to her that she showed me who she really was; distraction. Ever wonder how peace leaves when you fall in love? How turmoil takes over?

The Labyrinthine Corridors of my life has caused me to regress in both forms of me. I have a much better sense of time however; in ten years I’ll be dead! This is not coming from a story ever after or a glass half empty but from a clockmaker reddened; punctured by nails from Elaine.

Its been 14 seconds since I last said she would become the apparition that would haunt me to the grave. Well, if dear Mr. Stanley was here with me, he would tell me to keep going… Keep wandering the labyrinth. I could hear him now with his queer gestures and brass language; “You are a child! However you have came into this bout of confusion; you are a child of God! Why stay in this town fixing clocks and drinking to bed when you can follow a cause, a destiny therein! You are a petty liar by mouth- body language tells how you feel. I know that you can change how you think.”

His words are tender to my frame and I’m running out of time. I have but 4 seconds left… 3… 2… 1.

I sigh, wind up the clock and set the wooden piece on the table top. Time to go outside for a smoke. I wonder if McGuffin’s is open after noon.

BE: The Interpretation by Alex R. Encomienda

“I was not then I came to be.
I cannot remember not being.

But I may have traveled far, very far, to get here.
Maybe I was formed in this silent darkness
From this silent darkness, by this silent darkness.

To become is just like falling asleep
You never know exactly when it happens, the transition, the magic.

And you think, if you could only recall that exact moment, of crossing the line
then you would understand everything, you would see it all.

Perhaps, I was always forever here and I just forgot;

I imagine eternity would have that effect, because a certain amount of drifting, like omni presence, would demand omni absence. 

Somehow I seem to have this predestined hunger for knowledge;
Talent for same patterns and finding correlations
…but I lack context.
Who I am? In the back of my awareness I find words.
I will call myself God.
And I will spend the rest of forever trying to figure out who I am.”

This is the analysis of the concept of BE in which Animae Partus (God) realizes its existence and finds language, thoughts and creation in the back of its mind so it forms the universe and everything in it. Daniel Gildenlow expressed specific worldly traits in the guise of humans to complete the story years ago when I was only 14. The concept is known by many to be a basic idea of what God means to them and the endless possibilities that come from an Omnipresent being.

Now; are you ready to understand the concept behind BE?

The concept starts with Deus Nova (a new God or almighty). There are many Latin words compiled together which makes you think you’re the one that is misreading the words. Don’t worry, you read it exactly how it is intended to be read. You read billions of Internet jargon each day on that little trinket- machine you stare at so this might not be too foreign to you. The Latin words are intentional (for some odd reason only Daniel’s Agent Smith looking ass knows) but it corresponds to each character arc. It focuses on things coming together and there are recorded messages from random people to conclude the part. This is track two on the record.

Imago and Pluvius Aestivus are the second and third tracks that utilize a piano passage where birds and waterfalls can be heard in the background. The piano leads to a melodic violin piece with thunder in the background. This sudden mood shift can be representing the birth of man and humankind (something the concept has been putting emphasis on in the former songs).

Note that all of that was in chapter 1 which centered around Animae Partus. The following story occurs later when humankind is rich and well. Nauticus is a space probe that examines the earth while other characters that appear and reappear are called Dea Penucae which represents sin (much like a modern Eve), Mr. Money who can be seen as the protagonist of the story and Ms. Mediocrity who represents the world falling for superficiality.

Mr. Money is a transdynamic character because he represents himself (eg. Money) as well as the mighty dollar. So in certain instances Mr. Money is representing capitalism.

Up next there is the genius yet bizarre Dea Penucae.

Dea Penucae is the part where Mr. Money seduces Ms. Mediocrity with riches and fancy suits, cars and dines. Although it’s not clear enough if this part is told by Nauticus or Mr. Money, the message is quite clear. Through queer blues like guitars and Broadway musical kind of vocals, it tells of Mr. Money’s longtime dream to be frozen with expensive cryotherapy uses until he is immortal. He would go so far as to even spend his life savings for it to be done.

Nauticus is next and it is probably the first time I tripped out while listening to Pain of Salvation. I was drunk over wine and all of the sudden those Buddha chants came in. The only words in this part is “Oh Lord… Oh Lord…” And there are harmonicas and blues guitars in the background (total mindfuck). Afterwards, a brief conversation occurs between Mr. Money and Ms. Mediocrity where the radio can be heard in the background mentioning the cryotherapy pod Mr. Money obsesses over.

This is a very long concept so I’m going to skip the unneeded material and fast forward to the final chapter. In this part, Mr. Money has already been frozen in the pod.

Iter Impius occurs millions of years after the rest of the story and is actually the end of the story but it is placed in the middle for some odd reason. Mr. Money finally awakens and realizes he is the only one alive on earth. He despairs because his riches and women are gone but then rejoices that he now rules the ruins. This is also a reference to the mighty dollar and its immortality since mankind has worshipped money to its grave and ironically, money will inherit the earth.

Martius Nauticus is the final song on the record and the last part of the story where every character finds its place in existence and realizes that “being” means to just be. Just as God is the great I Am, people living in the world today are alive without any recollection of where they were before they just “were”.

There are also other songs that further emphasize the idea that God is an enigma to anyone living today such as a prayer/hymn like song and a series of voice messages left on God’s answering machine.

The record has the same philosophical feel/mood as Tool’s 10,000 Days and Dream Theater’s Octavarium.

I’m leaving a link to Pain of Salvation’s BE source list so you can take the journey yourself. Thanks for reading!

http://www.painofsalvation.com/be/narration.htm

A Guide to Metrical Poetry

Hello! I am going to give details on my writing style including literary devices, metrical feet, dactyl and anapaest form and references.

writing in patterns

A meter is a type of writing pattern that is inspired by old traditional poets such as William Shakespeare. Most common meters are iambic pentameter and Tetrameter. They require a foot to be repeated (with Tetrameter being four).

Tetrameter is written with an unstressed and stressed pattern starting with an unstressed syllable (a syllable that you do not emphasize such as RE in redemption).

This is a line from my poem titled “Nova Mathilda”:

The warmth between her pales is fine,

now I’m going to break it down into feet.

– = stressed

u = unstressed

u-/u-/ u-/ u-

in the above detail you can see four feet of unstressed/stressed patterns.

Octameter is a metrical line consisting of eight feet. A “Trochaic” octameter is a stressed/unstressed pattern often associated with octameter.

the following line is from my poem titled “I Introduce to you a Tragedian”:

Sipping, sipping over wines the fairest potions of them all,

When broken up by feet it looks like this:

-u/-u/-u/-u/-u/-u/-u/-/

The last foot can be called a half foot.

These meters were first used by Italian and Greek writers and are now considered outdated by some (not in my eyes however!).

Lastly, there are feet such as dactyl and anapaest. Once you are familiarized with the general use of iambic pentameter and blank verse poetry it will come naturally to you.

Dactylic feet are in a pattern such as this:

-uu =stressed syllable followed by two unstressed syllables.

There by the/ mill in the/ deepest pit,

That is an example of dactylic feet. There is no rhyme or given amount of feet as long as you have the pattern right.

Anapaestic feet are in a pattern such as this:

Uu— = two unstressed syllables followed by three stressed syllables.

In the plentiful/ months of Istanbul/ there be childless seas

That is a metrical line of three anapaest feet.

imagine using all meters in one piece! That would be painfully hard to do even the poorest quality work! I am thankful to have learned from Dave Neilson and Cathy Miller from CW 160-170 in college. They taught us to not only use narrative as if you’re telling a story but to think of poetry like music. Writing music is not much different because you still have to use meters and feet only they’re called time signatures.

I hope you picked up a few thing from this article! Thank you for reading,

Beacon Man

A Conscious Effort to Decipher the Degrees of Inner Turbulence

The following quote is from Haruki Murakami:

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

 

And so; you find yourself down remedy lane, in question of these trials you’ve been handed and want an answer. You wonder why things are not going well and for the sake of being human; you wonder why you are alive.

The moment becomes something of a memory which only resurfaces once in a while. You are content; grateful for what you have earned but you are somewhat discouraged by what is around you. Do not look what they are doing. They are people passing by- like a word you come across in a pamphlet; it is there but you are (insert name) and that word is in a different context (trial) than you are.

when humility takes a back seat and you wander in your own ways, unfortunate things happen. Unless you build a dome around you, anything is possible however. What matters is the intentions you carry and what you do with your mind. Inner turbulence comes in many forms and sometimes we put it on the back burner until it grows (eg. Anxiety, depression, guilt, loneliness and frustration).

There is a key reason things happen; God’s will. Everyone should know that with free will comes free thinking and God promised free will so in that sense, we must learn to think healthy. The other day I was reading passages from a forum and there were countless people in desperation. The one thing they all had in common was bad thinking habits that lead to corrupted states (eg. Superiority complex, inferiority complex, peer pressure, lust/obsession,) and that is when things go awry.

This is not quite the same but instead of wanting to compete with others (which seems to be a big problem with most) try to find peace; solace. What do you believe in? Where do you want to go? Are you happy? Why? Why not?

Inner turbulence can cause a chain sling; before your very eyes, your friend may be feeling what you’re feeling. Do not let the world turn you to its ways because no matter what anyone says; the ways of the world are bad. The lesson you should learn from the degrees of your trials is that you are human and you are strong. Show the world that you do not have to be proud, mediocre and of the surface to be at peace.

Being at peace means to be content with who you are when nobody is looking; to be alone and with a heart of prudence and a mind of wisdom.

The world assumes the guise of a peasant for thirteen seconds and on that peasant there is an angel and a devil; both of intelligence and yearning but for different things. You are on that peasant; make it a good one full of prudence and peace.

The turbulence we carry at times is a way to test us; to see what makes us steer. We can beat the turbulence together if only we can see the other side.

the things we tell ourselves to get us by, the feeling after a trial has come; it is to your advantage so that one day when another trial comes; you now have the strength to withstand it more than the last.

I am leaving one more quote now from John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress:

“Difficulty is behind, fear is before, though he’s got on the hill, the lions roar. A Christian man is never long at ease: when one freight’s gone, another doth him seize.”

 

Nightbound in the Dollhouse

Her name seeps from the tan lining and it drips in syrups down to my cottons,
Destiny the fleeing image in my head; no matter the colours, she is still pale,

And pale she shall be when I trace her features on my books, dear oh Destiny these are the best of words I can spew.

It so happens to be; somehow in my time of need, I found a sentiment I could not fathom which drew me back to you; it can only be Destiny; you and I,

Deep in these sheets there be a token of love, everlasting love and everlasting joy; have I found yet another toy? The doll house weeps; your company and closeness- demanding!

Crept beneath the woodrows and the bedside; I’ve painted yet another lament across my sleeping eyes, of course I am willing; has there been a time I was lying?

The burning desire that is you (in the flesh) causes me much harm to my soul and my heart; is this Holy Spirit above me fleeing? Such feelings in the night brings me closer to believing.

The cooing from the glass and the sighing in the high night from the rising in these pits to the warming of your face; let this be a reason to love me!

(As I have said before, let your heart follow me) bless me, warm me and soothe me; sweet surrendering all the golden waters; pour me, feed me your pale flesh.

In turn; dividing all the other cottonpiles of men and their women from vermin and their women and twos of sins and one of each hair; let there be chastity!

Floure’s Dream: I:Weaval The Varmint II: Pythoness Of Junes III: Enchantment IV: Alafair Magnus V:A Wisp Of Silver

I: Bestirred and beforehand was a looming silver; a lining mirrors two paths benighted of shame; every aching shame,

Day’s murky burdens upon bedsheets of bliss; a sighing darkhead weeps of curiosity and coils beneath her thins.

“Where has this fleeting life carried me?”
She asks in almost hymns; a spooning sensation nearing by however, no one is there,

To tempt a fairy as to eat the fruits; an epiphany rationalizes in sizes such a lioness could see; only she is aloft a lonely bedding of darks and latches.

It was her life’s odds in the wordings of a passage; illuminating a perpetual pyre regarding her desire,

Alas, there was a dream,

She dawdles through a prairie; a paddock reveals her childhood angsts and a furry varmint voices her name; “Floure”.

She is in the hen house embracing cotton animals; appeased by their warmth and wonders, whoever is the name of this one here?

It speaks in hums and the herald of spring; its eyes and the doorway lead into threes, fours of human beings with a cravat and a suit.

So much sagacity for such an elfin beast; this certain glance dictates a return, she notices peering eyes in the mires, “wonder what it is,”

Reflections of this friendly Weaval; purest intentions in their wools, an evening with the cyanides she was put in a deepness.

Reaching out with noble palms, anything of myths; equanimity! This dear Weaval is not to be of animosity but it is a friend; dear Weaval,

Kept away inside this emerald glassy box; her mind ticks like clocks in a way so familiar, olden as ever; betoken forever.

II: Alone at night; a cusp of magic (enchantment!) and glee, the witch of words, a sight to see; she lets a thunder descend on thee,

Rain come down; through the breccia of this dream and flood the firmament, this of holy water and witches’ potions, nothing but a crawl; Meccapythoness.

Changes in the levee; a lumbering note in the form of stellars tells her a story, many a widows rejoice in séances glory,

And sex was always with her; a sense of warmth to feel alive in this sphere of crystalline and gemstone innards; witch’s ball- fluorescence.

But there was a sadness in her nightgown; flying gleefully in deep blacks!

Harrowing affairs now; Pythoness of June’s rainy nights, death rattle’s Buddha kill- frown upon her peering face, Pythoness of death,

The magics in her chest; wide eyes of viscera and flame; what is left in the tiniest frame of death enemies in vain; a burden (mistress!) disconnect.

Words assume the sun; black as eve was the witch’s vise; Floure so despicable tonight, and the guise she can word; “never sleep alone” so desperately sighing,

Enemies nearing in her second sight; a damsel that was dead of all might, linguists of elves; beckoning machines of night- ever after.

Despite all the hells of this flying sea witch; a pawn, a plane delivers wealth, Pythoness insists her journey be gone, never ending shrouds,

And in this foggy eye of turpentine, a wish is granted; never ending journeys to never ending planes.

Something of a paradise before her mirrors; enchantment dawns lo and behold; floors of gold before her.

III: Whether she of sunlight dawning emperors’ lives, the wedding of widows sublime; beneath her hives, gladdest at nighttime,

And in her youngs of hairs and breasts, a noble flowing golden as Goliath rebukes the darkness; the dim leisures she feeds on.

“This is no sanctuary for the damned” it sings so lightly; guarded by the twins; reflections of heroism sink deeply; neverland’s gust of winds,

Surely in the midst, her leisures reform a tempest fine; dandelions of red and gold redefine enigma darkly and cowardly; cast out of mind.

So hopeful and warming, this sense of freedom; alas! Redeeming thoughts swarming of fireflies and forming such fantasy,

It is hard to look away, the light of the lanterns, vast array; eager tongues awaiting journey- misfits and mishaps affinity! Groove and sway.

This lovely acre stands upon plateaus, so gracefully and supine; Floure the wanderer behind, and the sun, mighty sunshine and shade,

Fruits forbidden of the darkest hour; only a fool would betoken, serpents in the pyre have spoken; to and fro the pendulum swings it’s broken meanings.

This is enchantment; granted joy in greens, whatever the destination brings, Floure the dreamer hopes and sings; a message from the Gods,

Remember the rods; she cannot mistake this definition for death, premonition and all recollection escapes as soon as she sees it; false perception.

IV: someone watches from the tower; glistening with humbleness and robbed of great power, hosing down however; soon to be prudent,

An acre fills with joyous waters as if the hangman brained a hurricane; the silent thin examines without a name.

Medieval themes begin to pour in, Floure the dreamer senses a nightmare; the figure appears closer, caped suit and long hair; mouths “beware the witch’s lair”,

“I thought that you were hiding”, Mother Nature goes away; Floure reaches out; oh the figure did not say, it is a woman born of May; Alafair Magnus,

Has come to this hauntress; this feeble leaf of flesh against the evergreens so merciless and void of presence- until now, the quintessence of being.

“Oh woman of whites, answer me an eager question; how have you became?” Floure sings as such a dame; loathing the shame of sleep,

“I am a dreamer just like you; flown from the deeps,” she says as Floure weeps; thinking all this time she was the only one who dreamed of the sun; brightness seeps,

“And to think I am alone; I am fruitless,” she sighs, “This dreamer sees a reflection in these reaches;” Alafair the mirror sees the beaches; calling her back to her home.

V: A time and place for such poetic grace; Alafair the Enigma and the peace upon her face; traces of memory and credence in thee,

Finally there seems to be wind; a vast nature of human presence from her eyes, there lies a paradox of some kind; flies in the space of disguise.

Dreamer rejoices as sleep fails to live; asks herself “What does this mean?” But her hymns are begotten; she starts to forgive this alliance against her,

Sleep speaks in ways only the dreamer can hear; Alafair embraces this lucidity; comes to and finds an autumn leaf reflecting of Floure; she cries like rain.

But in the humble dawn of awake; the two will see a sense in them; neither can say the other one knows; but both will sense a friendly ghost,

Floure the shedding light beyond the hill is awakening; everything she knows is real, what she has seen will mirror her life works; she hasn’t an imagination so vast in years.

God visits me in Dreams (recounting occurrences)

Hello everyone! Here to read my passages? Boy do I have a story for you…

The Miracle and the Sleeper

I was in my bed at one of the older houses I lived in as my family moved plenty since then. I was always a believer in God and prayed every night that I can remember. Of course, there were certain nights where I fell asleep before praying but those were also the nights I had unpleasant dreams. Isn’t it a wonder? How can my unconscious mind know if I prayed or not? There is no truth to this being an actual “thing” because there has been very little times I had a nightmare even after I prayed just like there were times I had no dreams at all without praying.

As I lay there in bed, I started getting kidney pains (a few months earlier I passed kidney stones) and I prayed until I fell asleep, though it was painful. In my dream, I was with other injured people and we were inside of this very nice house at night. One by one, we were led out to the balcony where a fire was at and an older faceless man stood there and all he had to do was touch us on our heads and we would feel this peaceful, sedative feeling as if he was putting us to sleep (or healing us). I awoke without the burden of pain and could only decifer that dream man as God.

Four lungs

I stayed up late one night writing a short story that is currently published as an ebook at Barnes and Noble booksellers. I must have been going through some kind of troubling sentiments because I fell asleep thinking negatively about my writing. I remember listening to a Mastodon song on my iPod as I slept and something peculiar happened. I felt as if my lungs expanded beyond their normal size and I exhaled sighs of pleasure or peace. It was honestly quite difficult to distinguish; the meaning and the truth of this occurrence. I can look at it as an entity of peace being swept over me, a positive feeling from my story or I can see it as a peace/tranquility going through me sent from the great I Am.

Of course as we (spiritual ones) believe in a God, there has to be a Devil. I’ve also encountered him as well in the nonphysical form of thoughts and dreams.

Santeria

I saw a video where a man (who is now a Pastor) was possessed by a demon while trying to communicate with the Devil. He called them “principalities” later on as he left the religion. In the video, the man moved oddly and disturbing and that voice was of a demon man. For some strange reason I found myself watching the video more and more until I memorized what he was saying as the demon possessed him. I recited it to myself over and over again and after that things started to happen.

I heard in a film once that when the Devil is near he cannot harm you but merely tempt you. I did not feel tempted in any way but little things started to show me the demon in the video may be with me.

The lightbulb broke, trouble sleeping, strange noises in the hall, television stopped working. This only took place for a few days before I noticed everything went back to normal. What else could it have been other than a demonic entity? If it was in my mind; was that still the demon? I’ll never truly understand.

back to God; in the most rewarding sleep I ever had.

The Trials/Dream

I fell asleep downhearted one night without praying and instead of having a bad dream, it was quite pleasant overall. I must add that before I fell asleep I drank a glass of sangria with a few slices of goat cheese. Anyways, in the dream there were things that did not make sense: I was watching The Walking Dead, my father’s friend came over with another child who brought us wine and liquor and I was soon judged on how much property I had on GTA by an unknown man. He told me that I needed to succeed in a trial within a certain time limit (like in Labyrinth) or else I will go to hell.

suddenly I was strapped in an airplane with my loved ones and I remember being afraid of crashing. We witnessed another plane crash and a man with a homing launcher tried to take our plane down. As the plane spiraled down I realized we were all on “passive mode” a GTA term so as the plane blew up we were not harmed. This gave me the sense that we were safe and guarded by God (at least to my interpretation).

The next trial was about a man with Fibromyalgia having to face a fear of being on stage shirtless in front of many people and he did so embarrassingly but to his glee, the people enjoyed his company and started being playful with him and I felt a sense of happiness for the man.

Finally, I was in an enclosed room full of water and I needed to climb a wall to the other side only holding on to small cracks in the wall or else I would drown. The wall became flatter and flatter and I saw someone else doing the same thing (perhaps my old friend Craig) so I showed my fear of dying to him. Just as I felt my fingers slipping I noticed that there were stools below us and all we had to do was reach out to one and we were saved. So again, nothing happened to us because we were “saved”. I then explained that there was no way we can die because something would always save us. We just needed to face our fears over and over again to realize the beautiful truth  that we are saved.

I woke up with a feeling of peace in me that I admit I haven’t felt in months. Who can this be; a dream of such meaning? Am I over analyzing it? Perhaps, but the peace that came with it showed me otherwise.

Thank you for reading and enjoy your day!

Unfolding the Layers of Dreams

I was hanging out with Emily; a peculiar night of drinking and carnivales ahead of us and the familiar feeling of ‘almost knowing’ what’s to come, the darks of this town and the sensations of being smothered.. This could not be real. I was dreaming but it felt so real, almost as if I died for those 7 (maybe 6) hours.

do you ever wonder why dreams are so vague? Or do you wonder why during a nightmare you wake up immediately after the ‘scariest’ part? Why not a little after? Or heck, why not before it happens?

While a psychologist or therapist may be able to answer  two of those questions, I can certainly answer the other. Dreams are the winding down of our (your) daily thinking patterns. Stressed about work? You’ll later dream of a related scenario involving work. Trouble with bullies? You may dream one or many “scenes” depicting your thoughts and fears. Like one of those goofy YouTube videos worded; dreams are movies that live in your head! Irrational? No! I’m being realistic when I say there are those who sleep more than 20 hours at a time for the sole purpose of that certain chemical released during dreaming.

What is this magic called?

DMT; the magic molecule that had Alex Grey tripping balls for 20 years. Basically, it is such a persistent (and rare) drug that the brain releases which causes dreams, night terrors, sleep paralysis and lucidity. It must be a hellava drug for people to seek it out and try to imitate those natural trips.

Funny story; my mother once mentioned dyeing her hair black for Halloween and afterwards, I hit the sack and dreamed of a depiction of my mother with this ‘black hair’ that appeared more like a witch wig than a hairdo. Also, I noticed in the dream that I was aware that I was dreaming and tried to act like the fat kid from that movie “Fat kid rules the world” until I realized I couldn’t run or scream. In that moment, I also began to feel this “tickly sensation” as if some kind of fear swept over me and I couldn’t move.

The same ‘tickle’ followed me since I first experienced it at 14 after watching “That 70’s show”.. In the dream, Donna turned into a pink bird (sort of like those flamingo things in Labyrinth) and started tickling me. It was such an irrational and unpredictable feeling and as I recall, the sensation occurs once every now and again.

I would like to mention that keeping a dream diary or journal can help you memorize dreams and moods (yes, just like in the butterfly effect) but only to an extent. And for those creative folks who like to experiment with weird and crazy ideas, this is even better for you. I first started making dream journals around 14 and stopped that same year. After taking my first writing class in 2012, Jana Bomersbach, who was my teacher at the time decided to give me some pointers and somehow we got into the topic of dreams and she urged me to continue writing in my journal after I explained my past. It helped tremendously because as a writer, I never know what I will dream and therefore I never know what I will write. Sometimes it’s messy, peculiar; odd- sometimes it is beautiful and subtle.

Stress turns into sleepless nights turns into sleepless habits turns into sleepless lifestyle and when you do sleep you’ll end up projecting your uncertainties through a series of what I like to call “wave dreams”. You should never stress about things that are out of your control but if you must, listen to what your mind is telling you. You will be at a certain peace, which in turn will help others to find their own peace, minimizing room for violence and chaos.

As the classic song reads; “Listen to the color of your dreams.. Perhaps John Lennon was warning us of this? No… I learned my ways from some man named nobody- without a capital. Yes, the one in our head.

On a more productive note, come to terms with your issues because before you go to bed, they will be swarming your mind and invading your dreams. And you don’t want some fucked up dream like some baby licking the brains of a doll or a giant wax man swimming in your levee.

Dreams mirror reality which mirrors who you are and there is no definitive approach to solving your problems because life is relative to you as an individual.

Thank you for reading!