Thursday, April 21, 2016

Tormented by emotional turbulence in the dreamworld.

Part of me was afraid to go to sleep, afraid of what would come when my eyes closed.  What would come from within.  I should listen to that part of me more often, the scared part.

Something old and dead was indeed alive within me.  Old places.  Old people.  I navigated admirably, keeping the peace-yes, me a peacekeeper!, defending my friends and going after the woman I loved.

The woman I love(d).

Now where did that come from?  Where does any dream stuff come from?  Was it the past?  Is it the present?  Was I hypnotized into loving someone, or was it a dream delusion?  I ask myself these questions on a quiet morning at the hill.  And I feel like a different person.  I have an expression for that feeling, which I will not share here, but suffice it to say that smokewagon just budged a few feet.

A feeling that shakes the nerves, and causes one to re-evaluate things.

I didn't know I was in love.  Now or in the past.  And yet.  Very real in the fog of dreamtime, neigh, real enough to make me believe.

And I can't keep this stuff straight any more, whether people think I'm asexual or gay or something; not that I should live to the notions of others, but here I am before you relating my feelings, wondering where I stand in your eyes.

At least in this format I define the variables.  So it was a woman.  Not a man or a child or an animal.  Fruit, vegetable, or mineral.  Something visually pleasing, soft and warm and moist in the cunt-rind.  Profitable for many purposes, but best used for one purpose, and then to just look pretty the rest of the time.

And oddly enough, the very topic of the same woman caused my last "emotional episode" years ago, my last moment of outwardly-directed turbulence.  I went "psycho" about a Jeopardy clue.  I wouldn't watch Jeopardy for many days after, but I eventually came back.

I consider things within the kaleidoscope of my own learnings and experience.  I come to conclusions, I do classifications and categorization and qualification on my own, which leads me frequently to be misunderstood by others.

There have been times I have been understood perfectly.

The woman in my dream does not understand.  She lives like a robot-I have seen as much-filling her hours with things she deems productive.  It sounds heartless, but she has a heart, however hidden it may be at times.

She lives like life is a job.

More on that later.  I'll talk about her.  I gotta give myself some therapy some way, run down these asinine dreams, to come to an end to this torment, to inoculate myself against future repetitions.

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