bloggity blog, writing

dreams are the memories of our mind’s own making.

It all started on our wedding day. Ironic, huh? The day that is meant to be your most happy, or whatever but it is the day your mind decides to jump ship. Well, not your mind. My mind.

She looked so beautiful. That white dress.

I remembered her asking if I would mind, as if I would stop her. The photos of us both in white gowns must look amazing. I guess I may never know.

Walking into the ceremony, our favourite song playing over the speakers. She was walking in time with the tune. I felt my throat tighten… Looking out over the crowd of guests, all strangers suddenly, in suits of yellow plastic like radioactive protection suits.

My ears began to ring.

But as quick as I saw them. I blinked and they were gone.

I don’t remember the rest of the ceremony. All I remember after that is walking home. White dress drenched with rain.

If you had asked me at that point why I was walking in the rain or where I was, I couldn’t have told you. All I knew is I wanted home.

I kept remembering those yellow plastic suits, her image reflected in the glass their face masks. Standing and clapping. The rubber slap stick slap stick of their gloves. Mocking.

That was the moment I realised, I was no longer myself.

Like a dream you scream to get out of. Banging on my subconscious. Clawing at the walls of my mind like a wild fucking animal. But I simply kept walking through the rain.

I was at a set of traffic lights. Waiting for the light to turn green. I need to cross.

The rain gathered, ground clouds, no, puddles. Dark puddles of dark darkness, shimmering street lights gathered on the surfaces in circles and circles and circles…

Someone was yelling at me. I could hear them. Hear the gurgling echo of their voice over and under the rainfall.

A man. He was crying. His face so sad. “Come home,” he said.

A man. A stranger.

He took me by the hand. He said my name, but not my name. My new name. “What are you doing? Please…”

I wanted to follow him. I did not recognise him. But I knew him better than I knew myself. For I was no longer myself. But I could see it in his face. The love he felt for me was true. But where was she? She dressed in white.

I looked at myself.

I looked at him.

He fell onto the road. Right in front of a pick up truck.

People were screaming all around me as the man, the strange, was pulverized into the wet bitumen. Or was it me screaming… I couldn’t tell.

He was not full of meat or blood. Dog’s chew toys, squeaky steaks and hotdogs, scattered all over the road.

“She pushed him,” I heard someone scream.

But I didn’t… I don’t remember…

Just. Leave me alone.

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48 thoughts on “dreams are the memories of our mind’s own making.”

      1. No, the chick did… the character… I didn’t murder him… well, I’m the writer so I could’ve let him live… maybe it says something about me. Worrying about accidentally killing someone I love because I am broken…
        Well, lemons, that got somber real quick…
        Puppies! Kittens! Fairy dust!

        Liked by 1 person

      2. The character playing you murdered her dream husband, but it was you, but it wasn’t you.
        I didn’t take it as worrying about murdering your dream husband, so much as murdering your husband, in your dream. Thankfully, in reality you just divorced him instead. 😉 Less jail time!

        Liked by 1 person

  1. This mixes a lot of fears, wonders, regrets and fantasies together, as many dreams happen to do. I write stuff and let it flow where it will-just as you have, here. Something in me hopes this was not an actual dream you had, luv.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Bahahahahaha maybe slightly coocoo bananas but not… like the “stabby, push a dude into oncoming traffic” kinda coocoo bananas like here.
      I am Italian after all. We call our coocoo bananas, “appassionata,” sì?

      Like

  2. Okay…this read like a dream, like a dripping Dali painting of realities and falsities blending into one image ,made up of a million other tiny images which you have to look at hyper closely to understand and truly see.

    My tummy hurts from this but in a good way. In a , fuck me you’re so fucking talented and how can such beautiful darkness reside inside such a bright , creature of fairy beauty way. Wait…I just answered my own question. You are a unique gift of talent and stuff. So much stuff.

    🖤🖤😍

    Liked by 1 person

    1. It was trying to mingle that dream reality surreal goodness into some sort of story line…
      I’m so pleased you liked it… oh, hunny… I am a bright, burning flame… but there is darkness at the heart of every fire… charcoal blackness… *sighs*
      You are so beautiful to me 😚😚😚

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I absolutely get that. But I think that duality that resides in some of us is the ink that coats the pen that we write with 🖤

        I just return your goodness that you unerringly show me 🖤

        Liked by 1 person

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