so the lack of posting is mainly because my creative outlet seems to have been toyed with . . . all my creative juices have been squeezed into working on my story, leaving little for anything else. I hate how when I’m busy, I always seem to have such great ideas, but the minute I’m free they leave.
Anyhoo, my dream started quite an interesting storyline so I’ll post a bit. Random and creepy and odd but interesting . . . at least to me. Anyhoo:
The thunderstorm above raged on, a protective growling guardian against the lighter things in life I didn’t dare face. The ground beneath my bubbled and swelled, stewing from the heat of a underground volcano. the hiss that sounded when my feet touched the earth signified that my flesh was being burned, but my legs had grown use to the constant pain, the only indication I had of something being wrong was the acrid smell that wafted up to me from below.
The smell reminded me of blood. Of pain. Of battle. The things I was most accustomed to in life. While many people spent their time following their goals, eating, working out and dealing with problems in their life that seemed huge, I had always had the same calling, pain.
To be what I am is pain. You cannot live as I live without every part of your body numbed to it, without your mind’s defenses that protect it from any attack. You cannot be what I am without seeing things that make you want to scream in the darkness and hide in the light. You simply cannot be me.
The boy was still there, watching me, his head still cocked although he had moved his arm back down. Now he just stared, a sardonic grin placed firmly over his thin, cracked lips. I glared at him,
“What is it you want?”
Slowly, the boy raised his arm again, and placed one finger firmly over his lips,
“Sssh.” he murmured, “they’re listening.”
“It’s pretty hot now.” I said.
“Not really,” said the boy, “Besides . . . it’s all a matter of opinion.”
I glanced at his feet . . . they were charred black and had painful welts all over them.