Alright, my friends and foes, let us all pull up a chair around this table: let us all put our thinking caps on, then put our heads together. Let us do, for once, some goddamn thinking, as opposed to toeing the line and trying to stay alive. Let us figure this out.
You've all had dreams, right? Dreams are chaotic; disorganised; unreasonable. So why, and this is very peculiar, have I suddenly been having dreams which are nothing but ordered? There's no rhyme or reason for the why behind I suddenly begun having them. And then I went back and read over the first post where I talked about my dreams, and found this.
My dreams tend to be... wordy. Words circles themselves, biting and tearing; they run into one another, forming new words, thoughts and concepts. Rarely are they in a format that is legible; when I think back on them from now, though, and they seem so... cinematic.Now, excuse me for my coarseness, but this is pure and utter rubbish. People do not dream of words; if there is one person who has ever had a dream of words, I wish to meet her (or him) and ask them what it's like; because I, for one, certainly don't. I don't know why that is in the post; I don't know why I typed it. And yet, I said it with such conviction that I, at the time, must have thought it to be the truth.
And then there's the manner of the so-called dreams themselves. As I said above: order and structured, and perfectly logical, and two consecutive ones on the same themes. I think that it is not a coincidence, not by far. There's also the fact that I was typing the previous post up in my dreams; at least, the conversational part of it (which I re-formatted into a "proper post"). Of all the various things to do while sleeping, recalling their contents is, in my mind, not among them.
The contents of the dreams are, as I said above, ominous; Another Morality (the "other-self" who, in the second dream, wore a blindfold over her eyes) told me that I, too, would see the reason in what she did to herself. I hope to think that I never will. And I don't hope to understand the Third; the me who shattered, as glass would, into pieces. Those names, by the way, are merely abstractions for the purposes of naming them something. Just what are they meant to be? Symbols? Omens? Metaphors? Were this only a dream, I could pass it off as nonsense: but these aren't dreams, really. They're too... significant. These are planted; these are visions; lapses into madness in the guise of dreams.
Not that it matters to me at the moment. Because what annoys me here is quite simple, I must be honest: it's that I was so easily duped. So easily tricked. Hoodwinked. Confused. Stupid. That's the word, stupid. I bought into it, all of it, until I sat down and thought at it, until I worked out the little problems. Until I tugged and pulled at things and it came apart in my hands. That He's still there. Waiting for me. And I really can't do anything about Him. Except wait, and let him come to me: I have a friend now. I'm not alone.
But it is cold in here. And I probably should be sleeping.
... you know, I was getting myself worked up. I was getting honestly angry at it. And then... poof, gone. Replaced by this feeling of emptiness. And I don't think it's Him; I think it's just the realisation that, well, what does that mean? Having a friend, I mean. Nothing at all.
It doesn't mean anything at all. I'm going to bed.