The Dream

Last night, I had a dream so vivid I can still feel the chill in the night air. The images of the things I found and saw are so bright to me, so surreal. I dreamed, mainly, of a man. He was tall, thin, and had long blond hair he kept tied back. He had a smile that came easily, and was so self conscious. He had scars all over his body, you see, and he thought he was worthless because of them. I thought he was beautiful.

I originally met with him at the request of a friend. I followed him to his home, and asked him for a commission. Somehow, I wound up staying until long after dark talking to him. At the end, he took a memento of mine, and looked at me in surprise. He spoke of echoes, and of searching for my pendant for a long time. He turned it around, and opened the front, like normal. But then, he touched the back, and this strange lock appeared like it had always been there. He smiled, for it looked like the combination was difficult, but all he had to do was push a small piece of the lock, and the back swung open, just like the front.

I was astounded. I have had this memento for years, and once I got back home, I realized something. There was no reasonable explanation for my memento having that extra space. It was smaller than the extra "hidden compartment" he found in the back. I was tempted to examine further, but instead I closed it back and gave him a hug. The woods around his home suddenly seemed dark, and frightening, and I realized the time. We made our goodbyes, and I headed home.

I looked inside the memento again once I was home, and found myself back at his home, inside of his living room no less. He was curled up on his couch, asleep from watching some minor television show. He moved, and I hid. I knew I wouldn't be able to explain why I was there, and I thought he would be angry to find me. I admit, I followed him as he went through the house. Something was important, something off, about this man. He had so many scars... I couldn't count them all. I wondered how there could be so many beneath those clothes of his. And suddenly, I stepped back the way I came. There was no pride in watching him shower.

And so, I came to visit him nearly every day. I mostly saw him when he was aware, though there were a few times I couldn't help myself from spying on him. He became my friend, my confidant. Those I had originally gone to see him for warmed to him slightly, but didn't take joy in being near him. I couldn't see why. To me, he was like sunshine. I made the mistake of meeting his friends, and more so, of spending too much time with him. Somehow, though he knew nothing of them, his friends came to know of what I write. They took me one day, so many hands pulling me, making me fall and hurt myself. They just didn't care. They brought me to a theater, I think, through back alleys and shadows.

They asked me about my keepsake, the one he smiled so easily over. To them it was so important, and to me, it was only a way to see him. They spent much time with me there in the shadows, in the theater behind the curtains and the costumes. I don't remember much of this part of the dream, besides that it hurt, and I woke when they returned me. All I know is I still had the memento when I came back, and then sunshine. But no, not the sunshine I dreamed of. This was not a man I loved, but merely an innocent one. Innocence to me, is just so rare. It's addicting to me to be around those that still have it. That haven't lost that which is natural to us, through pain or strife or conflict.

This is all I remember, but I won't put it with the psychos or the victims. No, I'll put it to a separate page, a separate post. Even through all the fuzziness of looking back on my dream, I realize it was important. I realize the things that were in it. The Chosen, the Hunters, the puppets, the victims, though I guess that last one would mostly be me. I think I dreamed of these things because of what I write, because of how much time I've spent researching these things lately. But on the off chance I'm wrong, I invite anyone that's willing to interpret my dream as they will. It is pure truth, for the skeptics, and not merely a story I might write for the satisfaction of being a part of this world. I have no reason to want to have these people follow me. All they bring is pain and destruction. No, that is not why I write. I wanted to write of this person I found in my dreams, and I didn't want to forget. Dreams are so easy to forget, and to me... to forget him would be a crime.