|
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||
|
|
|||||||
|
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||
|
|
|||||||
There would be nothing ever so haunting as the dream that I had a few nights ago. That it would be in the eyes of one who would walk the night for many hours without sleep that it would stand alone, from it would be standing between the eyes of the deceased that would be which I am sitting here now writing out this journal narrative. That it would be in this world that I would be asleep and the rest of the world would be deceased, from it would be in the disease in my mind that would infest the thoughts that are written. That it would stand in the result of a nervous breakdown, one writes from the voices in their head are telling them to write. It is not as what would be understood, but the dream that haunts the soul from the day that they are born. From what would be written, of which they had already known from the beginning of time until they wake up in hell.
That in this world, do they see from what would be -- from what they cannot see because they are blind and dying. The confusion is what can only be seen as one would sit down and write this narrative -- the belief in God was not as it was or will be now; almost nonexistant but in some ways in the nightmares it is there. All who would define this description, one would call me a madman -- a ranting madman, but from the thoughts that would be seen in my nightmares would be defined in the blacker hours. From time; time is relative in the words writing themselves out into a nightmare. From it would be drawn no telling what came with the moon while it would shine in its blackest splender. That it would be, the minds waiting after time rapes itself into the sleep waiting as one would take the words across a blank page, from it would be the all in time.
From it would be looking and as I would walk into the vacant night spot -- the thoughts that all would be are in the writings on the wall, among the wayward thoughts. Knowing of what would be written as one sits in a subway tunnel waiting for the oncoming train -- that it would be looking in the thoughts that would be alone in the dark. From it would stand -- the knowing of our years and the ripping of blood and tears. That it would be in the eyes of the sleep waiting among them when all who would fall asleep and the horror film in their mind shall play again. That it would be the rigid thoughts which would be as one would have the dream of being thrown into a cold lake and no way to surface. The holding ones breath would make things worst for them.
From it would be the thoughts that would be ignored, from the time of the sleep that would become after the final breath passes. It would be the ghosts of the mind and dreams which would be the horrors of the mind after the passing, after the sleep which would haunt their thoughts and infesting the mind as one would sleep. In psychological sleep, that it would be the pictures drawn from the distress that would be in the mind -- the illness that would be standing in the thoughts among them, the cleansing which would come after suicide. In the waitings and forlornings, do we see when all who sleep wait to die -- only in death is when they can see when they would see in their dreams. It would come easier over time after one would see their friends and family die, but to see them die slowly from the illness is what torments one inside -- when one looks healthy but deep inside they are suffering. That it would be one will know their mind inside, the wasting horrors in the dream embracing that would be from the pressure -- the goddamning words that would be in the eyes which seen it all. That illness aged a 25 year old fifteen years.
In the falling, in the waiting to fall -- that it would be the dream from the water growing from the place where one sleeps. The ice growing colder as the death waits, knowing that the death becomes abound around ones thoughts. Years waiting after the death of a milleninnia -- what would be among the thoughts winding into a downward spiral, now that the future seen in the eyes left the old abuse of the sound of one million screams. That it would be the dark becoming, the darkness from it would be faced in the eyes of one who had the near death. The unbroken wills of which, the sleep that would be in the confusions drawn from the eternal lie. Of them that would walk with the faceless congregations, the fear that would be drawn after knowing what the moon brings. Night comes for all time, and the sleep is when the day awakens -- many who would say that it is a sin to slumber during the light would see how it would be. In the mind of a 25 year old but aging because the illness among the mind -- that they cannot help that one had been sick and growing sicker by the week.
From it would used to be -- the man of God who questioned the beliefs to the point of being driven mad. It would be in the hallowed madness in the blacker hours, that it would be the crawling horror which would be as poverty grows from the nightmares inside. That it would be the horror which remains the same. Hours waning into days and days waning into weeks. Of I who would once belief in prayer had taken five years of that life and walked away -- it would be when they say one grows closer to God just to appear further away. The knowing from their lies of being healed -- only for them to lay their hands just to become sicker as death would come upon them, and in the death and nightmares to come. When the words and empty prayers are spoken -- the raping of their soul shall become of them. When the horror of their mind becomes real -- the mirrored reflection looking back at them shows its black toothed grin. That it would be rising in their blacker hours. When it would be with after their faith had died and the illness becomes part of them.
That would be when their heart screams, "NO!!!" When they would fall asleep and see the nightmares of my stabbing after the scar beneath the long black hair -- a two inch scar shows itself true, even beneath the long hair. It would be the drawing the film into their mind which would be drawn from the violence of the crime drawn from the stabbing -- when they would see that after hearing it happened in rural middle America; the horror is real and they could not run from it. That it would be the reality punching them in the face and knocking them to their ass -- when they close their eyes the murderous dreams would draw darker into their mind, that darkness not even their God can save them from. From the mortiis that would be in the dream, the becoming of their faith when they would die -- though closer to God they are, only to find themselves in the nightmare that would rise higher with the flames.
When the dreams begin; too many things that are written among the thoughts are evident. From what would be the definition of right and wrong, wrong is right and right is wrong -- the hell between the mind would stand alone over time. That it would be in the blacker thoughts and blacker hours. It would be the question waiting in the time of the grave, the questions waiting -- looking as the dark would come waiting on them. From in the world, that it would never die -- it would be the darkness that would be when death may die. Never in the words which are in the mind, that it would be the nightmares told in the eyes of the one who is 25 years old but the mind is aging because of the unseen illness in the blacker hours.
From inside; the words writing in the dreams that would be in this narrative, a journal of the dreams that are documented of my sleeping hours. All that would be the eyes in the thoughts that would be while the horror film plays in the sleep. From the time when the theature of the mind darkens until when one wakes again of the horror; that horror which waits as the sleep would transcend deeper -- the screen plays back the violent scene of my life of when I had been stabbed, violated in the sense that one could not begin to describe the horror that would be as I laid on the stretcher while the police were hounding for information and the EMTs continued to wrap my head.
That as the horror grows more vivid in the theature and it was the audience of two, the police officer who was trying to stop the bleeding -- it would be the question that would be never answered about the motive and why. That it would be the why would be -- it would be the theature being the setting for inside the dream. The requiem of the thoughts racing in ones emotion, that it would be the picture of the horror film in ones mind -- the blacker hours waiting on the words inside. The film of the mind playing slowly, repeating from the hours playing in the mind over and over of the horror slipping into a darker mind. |