My dreams have been continuing. Every night, a new tragedy involving the men that I have loved and calm, scenes of death. The scenes are grotesque, morbid moments in brief visions. The mornings are spent, lying in bed, remembering the faces.
My friend Eran told me today, he doesn't think it is healthy. I disagree. I desire the abnormal. I believe in what dreams may show you, sometimes forcibly. I believe that nothing is wasted on a good creative mind. As confused and affected by my night time visions, in a way, I am thankful. I don't understand but I want to.
Morbid, frighteningly flesh-evolved, primal: Can this be romance? Is there such a connection between horror and sexuality? In my dreams, I feel my mind exploring these connections. Perhaps, for some people, these two are entangled, intertwined beyond emotional recognition. Am I one of them?
I dreamt in Spanish last night. I impressed myself. I remember perfectly that everything that was said in the dream made sense and came from my own memory.
My mom has always told me that I am hypersensitive. I want to believe that my brain is just exploring, much like my physical being. Alex, who works at Midnight's Farm thinks that I am sleeping on an energy line. My mom thinks my demons are coming out. Eran says he's worried. Naomi wants me to write a poem.
I don't know what I want. I feel heavy, carrying these dreams around with me. I need to twist them up and turn them into a balloon animal. I want to sleep. I want to hear what my brain is trying to tell me. I want to better understand myself through this experience. Most of all, I want to understand them. There is beauty there, in the madness- the gore of emotions.
His bloody face. The old man's grin. The way I let him lift me. The pile of bodies on my front porch.
The biggest mistake an artist can make is to be afraid of themselves.
Genius comes from an unknown place.
I am not afraid.