Oneiromancy
The past few weeks have seen a listless, lazy me barging around a somewhat hostile and demanding environment. The TU's deadlines and Thor's peaking output went in one ear, out the other. Or so I thought. Over time stress, anticipation and adrenaline have chosen to seep and slither their way into my subconscious, plundering and wreaking havoc. The dreams I've been having are epilleptic, claustrophobic and entirely void of logic or plotline (but the latter we already knew).
None of my dreams I've remembered in full. Upon waking and all through the day I have little epiphanies, every time I remember a face or a line or an image from sleep. I know there have been hundreds of them, people from commercials telling me I'll look like them one day, big burly men leading a charge with the ball locked in hand, classmates casually explaining how I should've handed things in yesterday. Martina made an appearance and set herself apart by not doing anything but just sitting there, grinning.
I'm sure there's also guilt in there. All over it actually; I dream of encounters with great artists, stories, frescos by my hand. They resurface and sting everytime I see others who took the plunge, who spend their days reading and creating instead of calculating. Sometimes the dreams come so casually that I don't notice they are dreams; I picked up the razor just now but was sad to find a far less masculine beard than the one from the dream-mirror.
I've felt myself becoming less and less at ease with myself and my choices. Sure, there's a deadline today and a game on sunday but I don't think the dreams will stop after that. Maybe I'm desperate enough to sign up for that poetry-group for young talents, who cares about talent anyways, enthousiasm is enough under twenty-one.
HURR-DURR
kicking another one out into the void
None of my dreams I've remembered in full. Upon waking and all through the day I have little epiphanies, every time I remember a face or a line or an image from sleep. I know there have been hundreds of them, people from commercials telling me I'll look like them one day, big burly men leading a charge with the ball locked in hand, classmates casually explaining how I should've handed things in yesterday. Martina made an appearance and set herself apart by not doing anything but just sitting there, grinning.
I'm sure there's also guilt in there. All over it actually; I dream of encounters with great artists, stories, frescos by my hand. They resurface and sting everytime I see others who took the plunge, who spend their days reading and creating instead of calculating. Sometimes the dreams come so casually that I don't notice they are dreams; I picked up the razor just now but was sad to find a far less masculine beard than the one from the dream-mirror.
I've felt myself becoming less and less at ease with myself and my choices. Sure, there's a deadline today and a game on sunday but I don't think the dreams will stop after that. Maybe I'm desperate enough to sign up for that poetry-group for young talents, who cares about talent anyways, enthousiasm is enough under twenty-one.
HURR-DURR
kicking another one out into the void
