Life became increasingly dangerous at the drop of a head. The subtle sinking feeling, the sudden realization of your head being in the basket. You can see your blond locks over your face, as you blink and blink for the last remaining thirty seconds. That was what I had imagined for her, and yet I never got to ask her her name. I’m not sure if that’s even possible in a dream.

Being with the blond elf was something of ironic desire. There wasn’t anything like the desire for hate fucking, and yet somehow I knew that I wasn’t the type to do this. And again, not sure if that’s possible in a dream. And cisgendered women were worth far more than to hate fuck. As I began to dream again, I found myself in consistent petrified forests where I felt like something sinister was chasing me.

That feeling hasn’t gone away now. And yet I must face this fear before I can make myself dream again, to face my own issues head on. I waited, turned around. And found that, it was … myself.

I had neglected my own self for so long and for so many years, and yet within myself I found that I didn’t know who I was. I know that the memories of her neck stump haunted my dreams, haunted my life, and make me unable to write again. And yet there was some merit in the desire for self-destruction. Rather than giving in to alien abduction, the alien aspect of the self. And yet there are many aspect of the self that are changing, one may look at earlier versions of themselves with shame. I wanted to burn away the fears, burn away the feelings. Burn it all away.

There are still many aspects of the self I know not.

And yet by waking point I then forgot. And yet part of the blond woman was somebody else that I had known, and there was no explanation for the fact the she would look subtly different every time I went beyond the dreamer’s edge. Ever sense I saw her beheaded, my mind would replay the same images over and over again. I became a fourth dimensional dream hacker, hopping to different scenes from my dream world. I could pop anywhere I want, pop out of the dream world into the waking world. And I thought I could control my own destiny.

And yet my own destiny is beyond my control.

Especially when the dream-scanners came.

Beyond the hillside and the meadows, there is a hope no in the lifetime. And yet this hope is far away, into a million lifetimes in the future. Listen to my personal rhyming stories, and listen to how I came to dream again.

There was an old man who sang through his flute, and spanked zombies with his military edition boot. And yet the old man was neither military or dream swatters. The man was another writer, who said he robs ancient temples from many nations from far away into the night. You never really could tell whether what he said was really true, but he clung to you like super glue.

While spanking zombies with his boots. And her sang insane Holiday carols from obscure religions on the atheist direction against Mormonism. He said, “I can give you this bag of Kingly treasures.”

And yet I knew he had to fence with his saber to get them. And so I politely declined, and hoped to never see him again. And yet I suspected, my story didn’t end with the blond girl’s beheading. As I could still feel her voice in the world.

The world inside my head.

I couldn’t get in touch with the therapist until later, found out at the last minute she only does part time, and then I get directed to Valley Cities which is all the way in Seattle.

It would be cheaper to pay for one way and live in a shelter, instead of let money completely run out, in order to prevent getting kicked out which getting SSI was suppose to prevent. All because I live in a motel about over an hour away, where here there are mostly therapists who don’t take Apple Health Care.

The management is already hostel to new tenants, with routine “inspections” were they literally make up anything each time to keep you on edge. They didn’t have INTERNET for the first five months I was here. Otherwise I could have gotten SSI earlier. I think anyone else besides me would have gone insane through this ordeal. And I’m not totally sure if I’m sane.

That’s if you don’t include how hard it is to get a job. That’s what they don’t say when Seattle acts like its a mystery why people are homeless. We only just started job hunting (I can’t work do to borderline mobility issues, partial deafness, and PTSD) when family told us at the last minute our rent was about to run out. All the while I’m apparently suppose to act civil to people here.

Ah yes, an absolute mystery why Washington residents are homeless.

I’m so glad the state is a competent private detective. They seem to care more about busting up prostitution rings than solving mental health and poverty issues that cause it to begin with.

The cops are constantly racially profiling, associating black and trans people with things that would never pass in a court of law.

Meanwhile in New York, there was a recent shooting. Possibly by cops racially profiling people, although I don’t know about the whole issue without a working television for months as well.

It’s not like I watch television, but when you’re reliant on social media things tend to appear out of context and tossed at your out of the blue. So it’s not like I don’t care, I simply haven’t enough context. I’ll save what I really think is going on for another time, as I still have people on social media that stalk me. You don’t have to have paranoia to realize our country is going to shit.

So here I am waiting for the next opportunity to off myself

Because I don’t know myself anymore. And I simply feel like my life is becoming to much to comprehend.

Yet beyond that dreamer’s edge, there are other forms of darkness. Where soldiers in the night form into the faces of the racist men, who stalk people different from they. Who find themselves superior to they. And they chase after men and women with pitch folks for the color of their hair.

Beyond the morning light, where blood fills the streets, in distorted medieval urban landscapes.

Beyond the our time, beyond our future.

Beyond the life. I find that in my fantasy world it distorts into the image of my own reality, exaggerated and almost like futuristic projections. I find that those who want me dead know what I can do for the world.

Because the elves rely on me.

Because they don’t know how unreliable I am.

The headsman’s ax is sharpened from the botched ordeal, while the original block is burned for firewood. One can see the body language of men, who while they say nothing smile widely at scoring a mark, the elf woman’s decapitated body having been soiled by its own juices. The tendency the body to clean itself only matters if you are alive, otherwise the body begins its slow rot.

What remains is only the impact of how the elf woman lived. Sounds of laughter, sounds a roaring. Sounds of deranged men ready to start snoring. The small crowd is indifferent villagers, who had known her to be a petty thief. And yet I met with a woman in another dream who had known her. Until she made that ultimate mistake, that was to disown her.

Into the waking world the trance was broken from by the sound of the local room mate parrot. Who had a thing for the word chocolate chips. I would have rather not associated urinated soil associated with chocolate chips, and I’m sorry but those aren’t really chocolate chips. Which is a shame because I really love chocolate muffins with cream cheese sour cream filling with chocolate chops.

My life was that exact kind of mixture between delicious and nasty that kept my eating routines erratic. Such dreams of the nasty were not an unusual occurrence to me, although due to the nature of the realism of dreams they tended to gross me out for a while.

So I hopped back to an earlier lifetime.

It was a normal evening back then, and I would spend a lot of time doing sketches of different kinds of monsters, and found that I had not interest in traditional fantasy monsters, for I want to to create my own kind of monsters. Such as the many arms of the snake, a snake with many heads that had different mouths with different taste buds for different sorts of things. My imagination struggled with different impractical monsters for a while, and I would sketch these until my fingers became raw and numb.

And then my interests began to change.

I began to read about serial killers and their inner desires.

I was so filled with shame and self-hate that I refused to go outside of my room do to kink shaming that I used to experience. But in actuality it was simply emotional abuse, and a lot of my issue had to do with self-hate. I found my solace in the draw of true crime novels, and would watch different serial killer documentaries, trying to see how it was they got caught. And yet over time I became bored of this.

The thing about kink shaming and gas lighting is that it is a process over time, and is highly sociopathic in nature. The perpetrator would make you question your own memories and perceptions of reality. For a long time I began to wonder what of my many different memories were true.

I had memories from when I was in my mother’s wound, remembering it being rather pink inside. That would be one of the main memories my wanted to break out of me wanting me to only remember what they wanted me to remember. Across many months of December, this would take place.

And yet now that image of a post beheading, something I would have rather forgotten, played endlessly in my head for the following months. Although at the time it felt like forever.