Something has changed since last time i was here. Much of the house has been boarded up internally, the rooms emptied. A plywood wall follows the line of the wooden stair to the floor above. There is no furniture in the house anymore, bare floorboards and walls boarded over, curtains drawn across windows. I am not alone. My companion leaves me to examine the basement. I notice an odd odor within the house. It seems to be coming from the basement.
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A chinese student who has something to show. He unrolls a poster in his hand, it is a drawing. A partly technical drawing it seems, very neatly drawn showing something I sales do not know. I shows repetitive symbols but I do not known what they means. My colleague turns to the serious-looking Chinese student, who proceeds to explain to me what the poster shows. As he begins to tell me, i look around again, getting the distinct impression there are big business interests coming into play, that a large meeting has been conducted here earlier in the day. I recognize the logos and titles of business interests. Whatever is going, but it is all being kept under covers, and the Chinese student knows why. Cia auditorium, langley Virginia, scene 3: The house Incident, i have returned to the house. I am with a companion.
I arrive at an auditorium. It is like any other auditorium, a large space dedicated to lecturing, tiers of seats descending to the lecture podium. The auditorium is empty apart from someone with whom i am familiar talking with someone to whom i am not. The person with whom i am familiar is a business associate, the colleague i called. He is always busy, arranging meetings. Often he calls me to this pdf meeting and that, meeting people with interesting agendas, none of which ever seems to actually manifest itself into business. I get the impression a lecture has been held here. On the screen are posters of some project or other, seeming business related and not academic. I am introduced to the person I do not know.
They write have to be washed. I have to take a shower then I dont need to think anything more. Afterwards, i call apple someone, a colleague. They ask me if I breathed. I dont think. I sense they are concerned. They tell me to burn my clothes. Scene 2: At The auditorium.
I need an income. A package has arrived, i have it in my hands, so it must have had my name. It seems the right thing to do to open it downstairs, in the basement. I descend to the basement and proceed to open the package. It is heavily taped together and I have to exert more effort to open. Something tears, a fine mist of dark-green powder filling the air. I drop the package, fearing what it might contain. I look down to see my clothes stained by a dark-green powder. I know I have to take them off.
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That dreams has since spurned a whole new layer in an epic fiction essay project. You can sign up for the occasional. Elements newsletter, follow Mark david on Twitter @authorMarkdavid. You can read more about his fiction. The Elements homepage or here on medium. The Dream, this dream didnt really have a linear progression.
All dreams happen in time, and the impressions and experiences generated in the dream-world of course develops some kind of memory of what has been. This dream was not that easy to pin down, though the imagery and memory of it was fresh in the minds-eye. I ended up defining the dream as 4 scenes. Im not sure how the scenes really played out as a sequence, but I do recollect each of the scenes and still do, now a day after I had the dream. Scene 1: The basement Incident, i am inside a house. The house seems familiar but i am not sure it is mine. I am stressed, work has not been what it should.
Dreams are experiences within our inner worlds, riding on and at times accentuating our fears, anxieties, concerns — but also our visions, motivation and wants for ourselves. This dream was none of those. There was no emotion. There was no fear, there was perhaps, a certain growing sense of unease as bizarre goings on become woven into meetings with people, none of which I had ever met before. But there they were, their faces, their backgrounds as real as anyone i have met in real life.
This was no ordinary dream. It was a genuine wtf experience. It played out right before me as real as a film, sharp in its imagery. As unexpected as a thriller and utterly unexpected. Being an author, i try my best to capture these dreams, since they plug straight-on in on my writing. Another Medium post captured a dream I called. That dream has been written into a scene on a book to be released at the end of 2017. Here is that scene, feel free to compare the two. They are very close.
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The reason first though I want write this down, is that my mother remembers this incident. She told me that: I woke her and my father up in the middle of the night crying and scared. She also told me that as I was telling my nightmare to them, that she could make something out on my head. She rushed me to the bathroom to see the cuts and make sure she wasn't going crazy. We moved out of that house a week or so later, because of that. I now know that I had sleep paralysis, but I want to know one thing. How did I get the cuts on my forehead if it was just a nightmare? Dreams fascinate me, especially my own. I dont have those kind of dreams that i am able to write down first very often, for the simple reason they are just so hard to define, constantly changing, shifting, often riding on a kaleidoscope of emotions that words are simply inadequate at freezing, what.
She raises her hand and slices into my forehead. The moment she does that, i wake. Able supplementary to move, i get up and wake up my parents. As I tell them my nightmare, i can see the horror in my mom's eyes. She rushes me to the bathroom and flips on the light switch. As I look in the mirror I can see what horrified my mother. Four long gash marks, with dry blood coated on them. I edited the story, so it wasn't in my perspective. I also fixed a few words and sentences, so they made sense.
I can't close my eyes. The only thing I can do is, feel fear. It's on top of my chest and I can barely breathe. I can finally see what is on top of me, a woman. She is covered in what I can only presume to be blood.
I'm gonna cut to the chase now, and write down my dream. I woke up from a the sound of footsteps outside my bedroom door. They get louder by each horrible second. About a minute passes when the door opens. I can't fully make out what the silhouette looks like. All that I can say is, it is tall. A few minutes pass as the silhouette moves revelation a few feet closer.
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I've always had weird dreams, some stranger than others. Anything from me being chased by dinosaurs when I was paper little, to me running from some shadow creatures as an adult. I wrote some dreams down in a "dream journal even though it had some random drawings and such in it too. One written down dream caught my eye all these years later though. The odd part about it was that it had a title. None of my other dreams had titles, just dates. The title was "I can't move". Another odd thing about it was, there was not a date written down. The writing was a page and a half long, while most of my dreams were about half a page.