Tuesday, October 04, 2005
The Dreams Came Back
It had been a long time. Escape had felt so good. She didn't run away from the place, she was swooped and saved by, of all things, a demon. Reunited with the family, and beginning to put pieces of her life back together, she never felt better. She wasn't gone long.
But she mistakenly believed that the ghosts were behind her, figuritively.
It was long enough after the horrid memory of the place had faded, long enough to feel herself and comfortable again, when one night changed all of that.
A city of Gold, she had said. A garden where there huge statues, and a building, and they chased her out. My god. What on earth was she doing in Wicked's world, in his gardens? What was she doing in the City of the Light, now a City of the Dead? I thought it was all made up in my head, the beautiful Garden of Statues and the horrific City of the Light. They were but visions, visions that tied in nicely with a poem or story. They don't exist. They can't exist. Is it just a common theme of people? This is too weird.
But then she couldn't breathe. So she went outside, feeling a bit squirrley. Smoke a cigarette, inhale deeply, the night was odd and electrified...
And then someone called her name. She looked around. No one was out there. Not even skateboarders or people walking into another place. No one at the windows of the apartments.
How could I ever forget his deep voice? And why on earth would he use my real name? No, that can't be it. It's just my imagination like it was the past hundred times. There is no Black Jacket, not the demon but not the human. The thing with my friends is contageous. Has to be. He never existed.
So she went back inside. But then she couldn't breathe again. So back outside she went. In and out. She was beginning to wonder what the hell was going on.
But then she had a dream, after her friend told her that she should tell the psychic about this, and it felt decidedly ominous:
She knew the City streets well by then, but mostly as a place of horror, the only place she ever visited in the daylight, the gold now a light dusted color, a color of a neglected place. But in this supposed dead City, a wolflion, multicolored, cartoonish, and thin, walked across her path, saying something that she could not remember, but it was certainly an admonishing tone, and then it peacefully walked away and then disappeared as soon as she blinked.
All in her head. This is all..in...her...head. "We should talk," the psychic said. No, no, we shouldn't, and in fact, I may have said too much already. Too much. Shooting off my mouth again, what will it be this time? A car accident? I get cancer? What? What will be my punishment for saying anything? Or are they looking for the person? Like in my story...looking for the one of the prophecy of some sort, and really, it's not who they think it is? That I thought that just for talking to me, Black Jacket may be in trouble with his "Excutives"? To use us to find the person that they want, although they would profess to never want to step foot on our ugly planet and even come close to touching a dirty primitive violent human, that they sent their specially trained operatives to whisper in deaded sleep about what they must do? To hide the talisman trinkets that control the humans?
No. That's all made up...made up in her head, in story she dreamed of...while listening to music. Yes. A story. That's all. There is no real City of the Light, there is no real Garden of Statues. It's not real. And it's not something that's unheard of in anyone's imagination. It's not real. She must believe that it is not real. She must believe that it's just a story, step back away and not involve herself in her friend's predicaments. A flight of fancy, that's all. Nothing to see here, keep moving along, nothing to see.
It had been a long time. Escape had felt so good. She didn't run away from the place, she was swooped and saved by, of all things, a demon. Reunited with the family, and beginning to put pieces of her life back together, she never felt better. She wasn't gone long.
But she mistakenly believed that the ghosts were behind her, figuritively.
It was long enough after the horrid memory of the place had faded, long enough to feel herself and comfortable again, when one night changed all of that.
A city of Gold, she had said. A garden where there huge statues, and a building, and they chased her out. My god. What on earth was she doing in Wicked's world, in his gardens? What was she doing in the City of the Light, now a City of the Dead? I thought it was all made up in my head, the beautiful Garden of Statues and the horrific City of the Light. They were but visions, visions that tied in nicely with a poem or story. They don't exist. They can't exist. Is it just a common theme of people? This is too weird.
But then she couldn't breathe. So she went outside, feeling a bit squirrley. Smoke a cigarette, inhale deeply, the night was odd and electrified...
And then someone called her name. She looked around. No one was out there. Not even skateboarders or people walking into another place. No one at the windows of the apartments.
How could I ever forget his deep voice? And why on earth would he use my real name? No, that can't be it. It's just my imagination like it was the past hundred times. There is no Black Jacket, not the demon but not the human. The thing with my friends is contageous. Has to be. He never existed.
So she went back inside. But then she couldn't breathe again. So back outside she went. In and out. She was beginning to wonder what the hell was going on.
But then she had a dream, after her friend told her that she should tell the psychic about this, and it felt decidedly ominous:
She knew the City streets well by then, but mostly as a place of horror, the only place she ever visited in the daylight, the gold now a light dusted color, a color of a neglected place. But in this supposed dead City, a wolflion, multicolored, cartoonish, and thin, walked across her path, saying something that she could not remember, but it was certainly an admonishing tone, and then it peacefully walked away and then disappeared as soon as she blinked.
All in her head. This is all..in...her...head. "We should talk," the psychic said. No, no, we shouldn't, and in fact, I may have said too much already. Too much. Shooting off my mouth again, what will it be this time? A car accident? I get cancer? What? What will be my punishment for saying anything? Or are they looking for the person? Like in my story...looking for the one of the prophecy of some sort, and really, it's not who they think it is? That I thought that just for talking to me, Black Jacket may be in trouble with his "Excutives"? To use us to find the person that they want, although they would profess to never want to step foot on our ugly planet and even come close to touching a dirty primitive violent human, that they sent their specially trained operatives to whisper in deaded sleep about what they must do? To hide the talisman trinkets that control the humans?
No. That's all made up...made up in her head, in story she dreamed of...while listening to music. Yes. A story. That's all. There is no real City of the Light, there is no real Garden of Statues. It's not real. And it's not something that's unheard of in anyone's imagination. It's not real. She must believe that it is not real. She must believe that it's just a story, step back away and not involve herself in her friend's predicaments. A flight of fancy, that's all. Nothing to see here, keep moving along, nothing to see.
# posted by Crazy Girl @ 01:22 
