I had another bizarre dream. There is no real reason for reiterating dreams other than the hope that someone in the future will decode them for you. So I begin. I'm playing myself. Except that I am wearing a delicate, thin white dress I do not own (unforunate because that thing was damn cute). For some reason, I found myself in a world of Russian prostitutes. (It gets weirder). I am not one of these prostitutes, but merely caught up in their war with the local gangsters. All of a sudden, Viggo Mortensen's character from Eastern Promises and his crew shows up. I find my imaginary self running from this group of Russian gangsters in, what I assume is, a city in Russia near a large body of water. I eventually get caught and for some reason the prostitutes hideout is located next to a long wooden dock on the water...situated on this dock is one of those theme park rides that has several rows of seats attatched to two mechanical pillars...The kind that raises higher and higher off the ground until it starts spinning.
This is the point where I get dream nostalgia. Whether or not I have met Viggo Mortensen's character from Eastern Promises in a dream prior to this or not, I got the feeling there was an underlying storyline to all this. Viggo (in a Russian accent) kept threatening me to say his name (some name I could not remember how to pronounce apparently). I got the feeling I had learned it in another dream and I was supposed to say it correctly otherwise the Russian gangsters became very angry. Despite my countless attempts, I could not pronounce it correctly, let alone remember if I was saying the right name even. I kept yelling the name, "Christian"...in as many ways as I could (even though this name surely is not of Russian lineage).
As Viggo became increasingly frustrated with me, and began to pull my hair and wave his gun around...I was forced onto the ride with the rows of seats. He and I then stood unsecured on the ride as Viggo instructed his cronies to start it. As we rose higher and higher into the air...my need to say his name correctly became evermore demanding . Either I say his name correctly, or I would die. I considered leaping off into the water below, but my fear of heights kicked fervently in. Viggo began to smack me across the face everytime I said his name incorrectly; my imaginary self crying in desperation, "Christian, Christian, Christian...". The ride rose even higher and I looked into Viggo's unsympathetic face...took a few steps over the unsafe row of seats between us and whispered in his ear, "Christian" with the correct pronunciation.
Then I woke up and realized I had slept in too late.
Posted at 02:54 am by
sleepy
Power Nap
The Piano Has Been Drinking
One thing that truly gets me down: completely unnecessary drama. I seem to come across a lot of unnecessary happenstances. I like to use words that I'm not sure are part of the English vocabulary. At the moment I am at a bizarre stand-off with someone I consider a friend, but probably shouldn't. It is so odd that I want to avoid drama so much that I let some people get away with the most offensive things. It's a sad realization.
Maybe now I can start being productive and discontinue rambling. Hm, maybe.
Posted at 04:50 am by
sleepy
Power Nap
Sometimes I want to just fall into the abyss. Get on a plane and not tell anyone I was leaving. It's hard not to crave self destruction rather than shuffle along and follow the same routine repeated by my peers. I don't want an average life. I'm addicted to the unordinary and I'm afraid that I will end up in an ordinary life. I'm surrounded by people....so why do I feel so alone here? I need a change. I need extraordinary.
I found myself grabbing the mellow yellow pill and popping it in my mouth as onlookers whined and licked their lips with envy. I felt no euphoria. Only gnashing teeth and wide-eyed insomnia. Even my tolerance is against me. Why do I crave these things? Once it started to wear off all I wanted was more....of something....anything. I found him and I pulling through the medicine cabinet; grazing over prescription Lorazepam from '93. Folded cards of Xanax with monarch butterflies on the cover. Over the counter back in the day. I was too afraid to touch it. Instead I opted for gobbling up miniscule pink tablets and passing out with my headphones on. "How many did you take," he asked. "Two...maybe three," I said in monotone boredom. I felt nothing.
Posted at 08:53 pm by
sleepy
Power Nap
