Bleeding Nightmares

I really hate nightmares. I guess by their very definition they are
not supposed to be likeable. According to the Free Dictionary Online a
nightmare can be defined as 1) a dream arousing feelings of intense fear,
horror and distress; 2) an event or experience that is intensely distressing;
and 3) a demon or spirit once thought to plague sleeping people.

To the first definition I would add ‘confusion’ and while I am at it
I would also add ‘often characterised by physical effects such as increased
heart rate, profuse sweating and deep seated nausea.’ To the second definition
I would add the words ‘unfortunate’ and ‘inconvenient’ anywhere in the
definition because these two things almost always accompany any good
nightmarish situation. Then to the third definition I would add to the end ‘or
a person who has the ability to achieve the same fetes as a demon or spirit in
another’s life.’

The dream I had last night seemed to have aspects of all three of
these definitions wrapped up grotesquely into one to create what it is that I
experienced. I dreamt that I was expecting my ex girlfriend’s baby and I was
over the moon about it. I remember the dream from the part where I was cleaning
out the outside room at my mother’s place in anticipation of my ex and the baby
coming home. I cleaned the room thoroughly decorating it with all sorts of baby
things and practically dancing and whistling away in absolute bliss.

Then at some stage my mother grabbed me and told me that she needed
to discuss something important with me. She then told me that perhaps I needed
to think things over since there were things about this “pregnancy” that just
didn’t add up. Firstly, according to her knowledge the baby was only due in two
months and secondly, she doesn’t remember seeing my ex actually pregnant. It
was at that stage that the facade of understanding came crashing down. I too
suddenly realised that actually I hadn’t seen my ex pregnant and all I
remembered was her saying she is off to the hospital to go fetch the baby –
FETCH the damn baby!?!!

Of course in the dream I took my anger out on my mother and then in
true suicidal fashion, on myself as well. The rest of the dream was just pure and raw anger,
confusion and fear. I felt absolute frustration at the fact that nothing in the
dream actually made any sense or had anything to do with where I am in my life.
The setting was all wrong, in a home I didn’t recognise, the people were
behaving uncharacteristically and the feelings I felt were very much out of
character for me and where I am in my life.

Or were they? I am inclined to fathom that my anger and frustration
at the end of the dream and especially when I woke up were because of the fact
that it seemed like something had penetrated deep into the part of my
subconscious riddled with fear and unexpressed desires. The most infuriating
part was the fact that I was so giddy about having a baby with my ex whom I
worked really hard to get over and the fact that she dooped me into believing
she is pregnant smacked of dynamics that kept me under her fist when we were
still dating in reality.

If anything this dream has stirred feelings that shouldn’t be there
like the rotten leaves and junk at the bottom of a shallow pond. Ghosts of the
past have been given an audience, if only I am the seer, the viewer, the judge
and the convicted. What I do not understand is why has my subconscious has gone
through such an effort to create an elaborate dreamscape just to make me see a
truth that I no longer see as truth. I no longer love my ex in that way and
know that I would never have her baby. So why then has my subconscious suddenly
turned against me in an insane act of cannibalism?

One of the things one has to grapple with after a nightmare is trying to figure out where
it come from and why  it occured. According to Wikipedia, nightmares can have physical causes such as sleeping in
an uncomfortable or awkward position, having a fever, or psychological causes
such as stress and anxiety. Eating before going to sleep, which triggers an
increase in the body’s metabolism and brain activity, is a potential stimulus for
nightmares.

If I had to choose one of the above mentioned reasons for me I
would go for sleeping in a bad position since my sleep hasn’t been the greatest
over the past two days. As for a fever, stress, anxiety and bad eating habits,
well, I am pretty sure it isn’t one of these since I am on holiday and in a
very good place of internal well being.

Whatever the cause is I am left somewhat baffled and peeved off actually. I
feel exposed by my own internal workings, as if there is nowhere to hide and
nowhere especially to hide thoughts, feelings and desires that I do not wish to
be discovered. It is especially true that I certainly cannot hide these things
from myself or even lie to myself. Maybe bad dreams are all about our
subconscious reminding our conscious that it doesn’t know everything and it is
certainly not in charge of everything. Maybe this nightmare was exactly what it
was, a really good wake up call. Well subconscious, you definitely have all my attention
now…

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Killing Poetry

Plunge the cold nerveless steel of a blade into the heart of the page

Feel whatever you thought you couldn’t take, throb in the final day,

The fate created by wounded words displayed, staggers at the loss of age,

Attempts that once seemed brave, expressions of foolish love untamed,

Are now the blame that bleeds scarlet and has me wishing I’d never claimed.

Every sentence constructed was a spell that was cast, but the meaning was hardly,

With fingertips stained harshly there is no more innocence in this body,

I’m partly what I have written, the rest of me swept under the carpet

From there fantastic dreams have started, casting shadows in darkness,

My tears can’t be dried by my open hands: that would surely disturb the calmness.

The lovers have tried in earnest to understand, hoping to escape a life so bland

The admirers too have read what they can, travelling joyously to forbidden lands,

I give a gland for every paragraph they see and use in their own plans,

A tremendous sting for every taken chance whether bad or for advance,

I feel it like a breath taken back: I feel it like the questions I failed to ask.

What the words sometimes seem to lack, manifests as fears, real and exact,

For once they are out there intentions cannot lapse: white pages have no cracks,

Feelings and thoughts are divided by a gap, unable to describe each other as fact,

Whenever I reveal either without watchfulness, my energies are zapped,

And like a thief I soon forget what I owe, taking everything as a personal attack.

You would think that what each poem has told has some romantic relevance to hold,

At least in the mind or the soul of my existence that scarily unfolds,

But by the evidence and indifference of those who read me awkwardly exposed,

Everything that I supposed matters little when fantasies start to grow mould,

So the next time I have something hearty to say, I’ll start by killing a poem…

 〤

The Rain

What but a kind word in a moment can
compare

To a confession not there but said
like I’m not scared?

What, if not chance, can make
uncertainty so fair?

So readily open it’s hard to
prepare?

Is it not through dialogue that I am
most exposed?

Even though the perfect sense I make
is culturally clothed?

Am I not what I speak because I’m
definitely not what I’m told?

Just an original idea cast from a
great celestial mould,

Like rain descended from above, I
fall

Translucent and well meaning I cover
all,

Spreading the will to live, fuelling
the impetus for imaging

Looking for idle minds definitely
worth tampering…

Sinking Madness: Home at the Bottom of a Well

I’ve
fallen long and far enough now and I have finally hit the surface of the water
at the bottom of the well. I have been in free fall for so long now that I was
starting to wonder if I would ever hit any water at all – at least something
that might be a bit of resistance against the awfulness of the fall. I have
been in free fall so long that I was no longer frightened of the fall itself
and so I had stopped swinging my limbs wildly and just lay still as I fell as
if I had nothing else to give. But now I hear the splash and its echoes that
hit the walls of the well, the echoes filled with tension, harsh laughter and
almost insane relief.

The tears
have finally come and I am able to cry after what has seemed like an eternity. There
are tears of relief at the fact that I can still connect with myself as in the
free fall I had become numb to myself allowing the hardness of undesired loneliness
to dictate its terms to me. There have been tears of sadness at what has
happened in the last months of this torrid year, tears that admit that it has
been rough and I have been at times almost helpless. And of course there are
also the tears of anger at what has transpired and how it has made me feel
while I have been a willing participant in it all.

As I sit
here and write this through my tears it feels like two worlds are about to come
colliding together splintering my veneer and sending shards of every part of my
very being in all directions. As the lonely year that I spend away from home
comes to an end and I prepare to return home I feel unstable as I do not know
what to anticipate, for I have changed and home has changed, making my concept of
home something quite ungraspable. Strangely enough, even though I don’t know
what to anticipate all I seem capable of thinking about are the negative things
that might await me once I leave here, this place that has been home while I wasn’t
thinking about home, until of course I started thinking of home.

The return
of nasty habits, the return to shady dealings with shifty characters and the
return to a murky world that I fought so bravely and for so long to overcome. That
was growing up, maturing, separating, becoming. I sense the pressure as it
builds within me clouding my judgement and confining me to ruins even before I have
done anything at all. I hear my own voices of destruction taunting me and
reminding me of how weak I am and how ill disciplined I am. I listen to them
conspire and condemn me to my own horrors, automations and desires, base and carnal.
“You ran from your home even when you still lived at home trying to find home
on the streets amongst friends and foes!” I hear them say, ii hear them true.

I have
been avoiding this for so long that it feels good to hear them all now, for do not
make the mistake to believe that I fear them. I accept that these abominations
of my being are part of who I am and I carry them wherever I go. I am happy
that I am paying attention again, that I am hearing them clearly and being
spurred into action by them. The action I take is not that they would wish me
to take. Instead I am galvanized to take action against that which doesn’t
serve to empower me and make me feel good about myself.

I feel
good about these tears because the mere fact that I am crying tells me that I am
listening to myself again, that I am connecting to myself again and that I am
indeed never quite alone. “Of course you are never alone you are here with us!”
The voices hiss. But I am not bothered for I know that my age is such that I know
I will overcome this for I have been here before – many times. And what time
teaches, nobody can take away from you, especially if you remain impartial to
your own truth. “Yes!” The voices all say in unison.

This is a
good cry, a rich cry like the sudden and unexpected splashes that occur from
unexpected movements in deep wells. I have gone under the surface in that deep
well and now I sink in the mysterious water and its great vastness. I am not
afraid. This is my water, my being, where I know and accept that I am eternally
alone. I embrace myself and am buoyed by my rediscovery of who I am. I will not
be broken. They say in chorus “You shall not be broken, we shall not be broken.”

People Eaters

Docile Memories
in an unassuming world, Living the life of those untold

Visions of
mastery wisdom unlearned, Glimpses of jagged battle worn souls

Tales of the
fallen tests of glory, Moments unkind at best are gory

Nights spent
poorly devastate destinies, Hurt felt sorely invigorates Memories.

º

 Sounds from wombs travel in liquid silence, Heard
by none the meaning is clear

Nascent findings
unregistered cerebral mileage, Immaculate tidings sins appear

Faith of the
damned remorse of the blessed, Repent for the sake of the comatose message

Naked without
dressing falling from the clouds, Hoping confessions have no Sounds.

º

Searching Merchants
lost in turbulent seas, Oblivious to heights of the natural order

Mysteriously dangerous
danger is a mystery, Who knows what lies across the border?

A truth so evil
it reads like a face, Or a lie so lovely it leaves a saccharine taste

Brimming base
desires unwind like serpents, Fake dreams sold by decadent Merchants.

º

The macabre Details
on tombstones encrypted, Tell nothing of a living man’s delights

Endlessly sought
perversions are shifted, The re-embodiment of incalculable insights

Pave the way for
the sorrows of ghosts, The foes of the merry cannot boast

At most the fabric of humour remains, The sincerity lost within the fundamental Details.

º

The price of a
Lesson is paid in bone and flesh, Forget your change when you don’t own time

Coming or going
you get what you get, Welcome to the now what’s yours is mine

Demand with no
supply is a black market woe, But only if you learn how to let go

The ears on the
wall have only one question, Have you learned your worldly Lesson?

Silence: a Thinker’s Worst Nightmare?

“A thought a day
keeps the madness away.”

I often wish I could switch my thoughts off just
for a whole day so that I could take a breather from all the thinking: the
planning, the hypothesizing, the worrying, and the projecting. I am a thinker,
as compared to being a feeler or a doer, which means I more or less spend most
of my time in my own head formulating the ideas, the themes, the scenes and the
melodrama that is my life.

This can be quite harrowing at the best of times as
any thinker will tell you. Most of the time ‘inside your own head’ is the best
place to hide, far from the clutches of the public reality, behind a veil of
cynicism scoffing at the unsuspecting world, drawing sharp conclusions about
all around you and feeling fully nourished by your own decidedly unique
personality.

But then there are those times when your own
derision – which is often your most natural weapon – ironically turns on you,
in an insane act of cannibalism, bludgeoning you for some mistake you have
made. These are bruising times for any thinker when your own thoughts make a
mockery of you while you are fully aware that it is you who are just attacking
yourself and sardonically laughing at the morbidity of it all.

So it seems that
what once was the safety of your own inner world, where you would make scathing
– largely ineffective – attacks on everybody else, is now more like a bunker
full of clowns blasting bazookas at each other.

I really sometimes wish I could shut them all up
these voices in my head that at times are the board members who assist me in
making executive decisions and at other times are the popcorn throwing peanut
gallery.

But the question is would I really want to do this? Shutting down the
thoughts of a thinker would be equivalent to sacking the blue collar labourers
of a factory: production would come to a complete standstill. And what then?
Without the manpower to continue production a factory loses its purpose just as
a thinker without thoughts loses his/her definition.

My greatest fear of shutting down my thoughts,
whether permanently or temporarily is not that I will be without definition but
more a fear of what will surface from the void left by the banished thoughts.

There are those sticky and nasty little things called feelings, which are the
bane of any thinker’s existence, the kryptonite to good reason, and the giver
of fuel to irrationality, uncertainty, outer chaos and inner madness. Yes,
feelings are definitely that part of human nature least understood by most
thinkers as thoughts and feelings seem to be as compatible as bubblegum and
hair, a Play Station 3 and manicured hands and nails, and pink bunny slippers
on a hulking, oily and phallic mass of a tensing male bodybuilder.

And what of all those other unspeakable things that
rattle, hiss and grunt from the murky corners of the subconscious? Don’t these
very things like to rear their bobbing heads at that exact moment when the
thoughts are silenced? All these things that don’t speak any language known to
man, that make sounds that aren’t always defined by the standards of man’s
world. All the images real and imagined, the desires fulfilled and unfulfilled,
the dreams realised and shattered, and of course all of the ghosts recognised
and ignored.

Oh yes, the silencing of the thinker’s mind is the
invitation of a whole cast of subconscious abominations, least of all the
silence itself.

The silence.

Silence.

The absence of thoughts, the emptiness,
the nothingness, the…silence.

Yes it is rather tempting when it promises to
be the real thing where the thinker doesn’t need to fear an invasion of his own
inner world by all the other faculties less used and yet just as important.

Perhaps that is the greatest lesson to all us thinkers out there (and in here
he he he), to learn to create that peace that we avoid so much, to silence the
voices and the thoughts and allow nothingness to take over.

 Perhaps in that
nothingness the genius of what we could possibly be will shine through defining
us as something greater than mere thinkers…