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It-Was-Only-A-Dream: An Anthology.

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    [Incomplete] It-Was-Only-A-Dream: An Anthology.

    Okay, possibly an anthology. I currently only have one entry, but I've kinda made plans to add to this whenever.
    If that doesn't sound very promising, it's not. Don't watch this space or eagerly refresh the page, this isn't and will never be the main focus of my efforts in writing. I intend to add to this, but I've not written a single word of whatever the next update may be.

    I am an avid dreamer, and each entry that follows is a dream I've had, put to words as best I can manage. This is not creative writing, this is simple transcription. Of course, dreams are very non-linear and very difficult to capture so you'll have to forgive me if some of this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

    Some of these may involve diapers or ADBL elements, but the focus here achieving as close to a retelling of my dreams, so I'm keeping this out of the regular stories. Some of these will be short, some will be long, some will be horrors, some will be fantasy, some may even be lucid. Don't blame my conscious self for what I dream... or do blame me, I'm not sure who's to blame.

    Feel free to interpret whatever you want or waste your keystrokes recommending whatever form of help you might think I need.

    Anyway, I'll start off with one I've been meaning to put to writing for a while. This one is decidedly not nice.
    Let's just call this one...


    "Fever Dream"



    Midnight. That’s the last thing I remember before this, whatever this is. But it seems so long ago now that I’m not even sure if midnight is a memory, or a desired event. When was that midnight, or when shall it be? What if it never comes again? Doesn’t matter I guess, as it’s no longer midnight, and if midnight shall indeed come in time, that time still has yet to come. But it still remains the last thing I can recall. I can still see the numbers illuminated thinly in white. One. Two. A colon. Zero. And then another number, three, maybe four; maybe it changed while I was still looking. Doesn’t matter. Wherever I was and whatever I was doing are now lost to me. I am here, and tasked with something impossible.



    A knot has formed in my throat, I try to swallow it but it won’t go away.


    Just the thought of my task fills me with hopelessness. What I am required to do is conceivable, but impossible to complete and pointless to attempt. Like drinking an ocean. I feel as though I’m shoveling snow up the side of a mountain, straight into an avalanche. Beyond the avalanche is a blizzard, endlessly replenishing the snow as it pours down against me. The mountain stretches beyond sight and measurement; infinitely climbing into the heavens; possibly never ending, possibly becoming steeper as it climbs. Should I ever make it past that first step, I would be crushed by the avalanche; should I make it past that, I would freeze in the cold; if I did not freeze, then I would suffocate in the thin air; if that didn’t do me in, then I would starve of hunger. And yet, despite all of that, I would gladly start at the foot of that mountain, naked, armed only with a teaspoon, if I could only be free from the task which I’ve been assigned.


    It’s hot, sweltering; I’m sticky with sweat.


    Where am I exactly? Oh yes, it briefly comes into focus. I building, a complex; vast and extensive, it stretches in all directions. Long corridors lined with doorways which lead to spacious rooms; giant atriums ringed about with balconies and pathways; stairs connecting the many levels of this vast structure; all massive beyond measure. Outside, massive paved lots surround the building, wide plazas adorn the many entrances; all of them, inside and out, devoid of furniture or decoration. No doors in the openings, benches against the walls, or planters centered in the atriums; nothing which could in any way diminish the capacity for occupants. Finally, surrounding the entire thing is a border, invisible and undetectable excepting for its strict condition of also being uniformly impassable. Beyond the property, roads and cities stretch away to distant horizons, taunting those trapped here with unreachable goals. Trapped, unreachable; those here and that which is not. This place is not real, but an abstract; a prison which cannot be defined and therefore cannot be escaped.


    I am constricted. I strain against the murky bindings. They give, but they will not release me.


    Packed, squished, pressed. Hundreds, thousands, millions maybe; people stand should to shoulder, chest to back, covering every measurable inch of this place. I can no more begin to count there number than I could measure the floors on which they stand. A single room swarms as a lake of hats and hair. I try to count a corner, no, a single doorway, but the people are constantly moving and jostling. There seem to be more with each passing second. So many now that even the air is compressed and dense in my lungs. Heavy, I taste their breath and sweat in each gulp of air. It’s thick and choking, but there’s not enough room to properly cough and clear my throat. I’m endlessly swallowing something which only lodges further down my throat, blocking me from getting air. I’m choking more and more by the second. And I’m stuck, stuck, stuck between all these people. No, not between two or three. I’m not standing in any one place as I’m not even standing at all; no one is. We are not in a building or any defined location, but an ooze, a red murk, a mindspace. I am stuck between all of them, and they are stuck with me. There is a way out, but it is impossible.


    I can’t decide, I can’t focus. The first step to freedom cannot be taken because it is moved again and again. Each thought I have is drowned by another, and another, and an endless other.


    These people are in me and I am in them, we are one and many at the same time. Our bindings are our every cell, sewn to each other like a scab to the dressing of wounds. To move is pain, to stay is fruitless, and yet no one seems to understand. I can’t force my eyes open, but I can see; our prison is decidedly red in color. Chaos. Every language and culture mixed and evenly spread such that no two alike are within close enough proximity to converse. Ignorance, willfully so; a total refusal to understand our dilemma. Division. Every single person screaming their own argument, desperately trying to be heard above the throng. Not a single word is discernible in the noise, and yet, every word rings true and clear, elevating itself above the others and forcing the last from thought. My goal is to unite this herd, to convince them that we must be of one mind. I shall never escape.


    Stop! Please!


    Arrogance and violent emotion drive the sea of swirling wrath into a boiling roll. A mind hears its own language spoken a distance off, but cannot tell from where it comes. They shout into the murk, seeking to find that which they understand, but they are caught in the endless jostling and pulled apart, lost in the sea of discordance.


    “Hey, can you hear me?” “What?” “Numbers are the key to success.” “That’s kinda sexist, isn’t it?” “Who’s that speaking?” “I told you to turn the lights off!” “He’s allergic to that!” “I’m lonely! “Can everyone please stop fucking shouting!” “He’s kinda sexy though.” “Fuck this.” “I told you five minutes ago, now get off my case!” “No, that’s not mine!” “Better watch where you’re going, asshole!” “Who’s there?” “I can’t hear a thing.” “Stripes and fuckin’ dots.” “Tom, is that you?” “No!” “Where are you going?” “Listen, I don’t think you’re even hearing me. I never said that. Can you just bear with me for a minute? I promise this’ll help?” “It’s your fault anyway!” “I need a break, does anyone have some water?” “The answer is ten.” “You’re a racist!” “What?” “It’s too bright.” “That argument is skewed!” “John said you’d say that!” “Shit!” “I need a smoke.” “That’s circular reasoning.” “Hah, go fuck yourself!”


    I remember the past, a time when I was not here; I see the future, when I have escaped, but I am not there. I’m stuck, stuck, stuck in this horrible present; in this horrible presence.


    Every second is a thousand arguments I can hear, and multiples more that I can’t even understand. No one will listen, perhaps they cannot hear. I try screaming, but not a single eye glances toward me. I try to wave my hands and jump, but I am confined along with everyone else. I move through this reddish murk, this way and that, seeking a place where it ends, hoping to find the surface of this mire where I hope to take a breath. But I cannot. The more I push and strain, the more tightly my bindings hold me back and pull me down. Deep beneath the weight of this hoard, I am buried; I am drowned.


    Time is lost to me, and I to it.


    Evermore the obstruction in my throat builds. I force it up into my mouth, but I cannot spit, for I have no face or lips. I must swallow this filth, but it sticks partway down my throat, building up once more until the process is repeated. I tried to keep track of time by the hacking of phlegm, but I lost track long ago. I try again and again, but the endless noise of divided thoughts breaks my concentration each time. I try to keep track of the number of times my concentration has been broken, but even that count is lost to me. I lose my focus and can’t decide. Should I keep trying fruitlessly to unite this amorphous crowd, or should I simply wait until something happens. Something will inevitably happen, and whether it’s good or bad I don’t care; it won’t be this. That alone is good enough for me. Days, weeks, years, who knows? I surely don’t. How long I’ve been here matters both less and more with each passing increment of time. The present moment piles up upon itself as if the past is clogged by the repeated iterations of this very moment. I’m stuck in an overlapping present, but the future is slow to come; delayed by the compounding of the endless monotony in which I am trapped.


    I have no words to fully describe this.


    Exaggeration is impossible, and yet the appearance thereof causes only disbelief in place of the intended appreciation. Yet, no matter how far I stretch out these descriptions, no matter how gruesome the details, it all remains an understatement only understated by actually calling it an understatement. No word or phrase, not chapters of a book or entire dictionaries; not a library, nor an entire city of libraries in a thousand languages both real and imagined could even begin to describe the horror of this occurrence. Each moment feels eternal, worsened only by each new moment, which feels the same—only more so. More of the same and I hate it. More of the same and I hate it.


    Stuck, stuck, stuck and I hate this.


    Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. I hate this.


    I want to bang my head against a wall, but there is no wall; yet my head aches all the same. I’m sweating, roasting within my confines, yet I’m chilled to the bone. No amount of hate or strain, not even the unending thickness around me seems to generate any warmth. But I’m blazing hot, and I can’t break free. The heat I feel is melting, but neither it nor the chill which it contradicts cancel each other or find balance. I’m hot and cold at the same time. My limbs feel weak and I feel dizzy, but my head still throbs with a rhythmic hammer in my skull. I’m parched with thirst, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I choke as my throat closes against the dry crust; in place of slick moisture, only sticky tissue. And yet… and yet. Yet, I’m still drowning in a thick sludge which I cannot remove.


    And I’m stuck, trapped and bound. The people I’ve seen or imagined meld into the thick mire that is my prison. Only their voices are left, and yet they cannot be truly heard. Perceived as if through the mind itself, connected as though we are one, I hear—I feel every single one. All of their words, all of their confusion, all of their refusal to comprehend our prison; it’s all ringing in my ears, piercing deep and resounding in my mind. Their disarray is imposed upon my thought and I’m helpless to stop them. It is as if they are content to be here, and yet they do not cease to complain. Somehow they are aware of this place, this awful state which we are in, and in which we may always have been trapped. Yet they do not share my desire to leave. For that, I am wrought with confusion and frustration.


    But my frustration is restricted to being just that. Try as I might, I cannot elevate it into rage. Either I am too weak for such a violent response, or my confines restrict my mind along with my body. I and everyone here; us, we cannot move more than a twitch. There isn’t enough room to raise an arm to strike; there isn’t even enough room to draw in breath and spit. We are stuck tight, too tight to even respond. There can be no momentum gained or leverage used, physical strength lends nothing. Worse, this isn’t physical. The same applies to my mind, our minds, us, them, we. I cannot extent my will into force; I cannot achieve rage or fear. Determination falls limp as cloth and will is drowned to a whisper beneath the roar of the multitude.


    Help less.


    In an instant it has repeated again. Beginning to end. First observances to final bitter thoughts. All recycled and squashed upon the echo of the last iterations. I go through it—this again. Stuck; trapped. I have long ago forgotten what came before, and long ago forgotten the very past in which I forgot it. Multiplied over, I’m losing track—no, I’ve lost it. I don’t know what I was keeping track of. I no longer know what I’m even hoping for. This is all I know, all I imagine I’ve ever known. Like a word on the tip of my tongue, I’ve lost the thing which I seek. Worse, I’m left with the search. That burning absence of that which is not, or cannot be, or once may have been. A shape, a hole which echos its emptiness into my mind. It screeches for me to recall, but I’ve lost it, and I do not even know what it is that I have lost. Perhaps it is even me that is lost. Perhaps it is the definition, the concept of understanding and discovery that I have lost. Which in turn would mean that I have lost everything as it could be perceived.


    I’m trapped in the linear, the circular, the compounded. I cannot go back and see what I’ve lost or when. It could have gone from me but a moment ago, yet it feels like I never had it. I miss it so much. Stuck; trapped. I just want something to happen. What is here is not. What is here is naught. I have lost, and am lost, and am surrounded by a people that do not care. They discard desire and overwrite it with resentment. I hate them but I fear they have enveloped me and saturated me.


    Stuck; trapped.




    DARK. WRAPPED. SICK. CHOKING.




    I came to.


    I was in the dark, yes; that wonderful and welcoming blackness. I was wrapped in something wet; tangled in it, struggling to free myself from it. It was my big red blanket. My head was throbbing and swam with dizziness as I dragged myself to an upright position. I was on my bed. Gasping, I choked for breath on something in my throat. With what little air remained in my lungs I coughed, I heaved, spewing a mass of phlegm into the darkness of my room. I didn’t know or care where it went so long as it wasn’t killing me. Another breath, another clump. Again and again I hacked the obstructions from my throat until I could breathe beyond the level of a short gasp. Who knows how long I’d been slowly choking; clearing my throat in my sleep, only to swallow again and again; an instinctual response that—unless I awoke when I did—may have killed me. I was covered in sweat and chilled to the bone.


    But the nightmare was over, though it felt like a lifetime; it was a lifetime now passed.


    Slowly it dawned on my that I last remembered falling asleep on Friday at midnight. It was still dark, but I had no clue how long I was out. I worried that I slept through the whole weekend; I worried that I’d been asleep for days; I worried that I had awakened even so late as Monday morning. I looked to check the clock on my phone.


    2:58am. Saturday.


    I’d been asleep for less than three hours.


    I had no desire to move, but I refused to sleep again. If I never slept another second in my life, at least I wouldn’t be back in that hell. Slowly, with an ache in my whole body, a sickness in my gut, and a throbbing in my head, I sat up fully and leaned back against the headboard. Alone, terrified, I waited till dawn; till the sun’s light would save me from falling asleep. I watched the seconds tick by, thankful for each one; thankful that each second was a new moment and not another repeat of itself; another reliving of an endless horror, a strobe of madness, a barrage of manifested hopelessness. If I died before I slept, at least I wouldn’t be there again, in that dream; stuck.
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