I wonder if you realize that it is my intention to sound obscure and arguably illiterate. It’s an art form. An art form that derives from the one of David Lynch. I hope you don’t think that I am incapable of following the conventional standards of the English language. I am. I choose not to. And that’s the definition of art. My choices are art. My words are art. Even if they don’t make sense, know they were placed with intention. Every single thing I write, I write with intention. And you know that. Because that’s all I talk about. (6 min read)
I remember every single one of my dreams, if they’re memorable, that is.
Last night I had a dream that I was running through a neighborhood.
It reminded me of Dyckman.
And then it didn’t.
I was running through it.
Running away from something. Someone.
As I looked around, I became aware of my surroundings.
As I ran, the neighborhood slowly became nicer. Richer.
No more men hanging out on the sidewalks in their foldable chairs.
It was when I ran across a freshly mowed lawn that the sky suddenly became brighter.
I could feel the heat of the sun's rays.
I was running away from a man.
A man who felt familiar.
Very familiar.
He wanted to hurt me; that is why I was running away.
I ran through the bright green backyard.
It was between two brick houses.
Beautiful houses. Ones with porches and large windows.
I’ve seen this before.
My strides became longer and longer.
The sprinklers turned on.
There I was, running, crying, and wet.
The mist had drenched me because I was running through it for what felt like hours.
I could see the street.
The street is where I wanted to go.
But no matter how fast or far I ran, I never got closer.
I was scared.
I kept looking behind me to see if I was still being chased.
“Avery”
A voice called.
From where?
I stopped running.
So did the sprinklers.
In front of me I see an orange kitten.
He was stretched out on the grass, belly-side up.
The tips of his ears and tail were wet from the dew.
He completely stood out from the sea of bright green.
Breathless, I kneeled down.
I reached for him.
Then I woke up.
If I told you what was happening in the first part of the dream, the ending might have moved you more. Unfortunately, the first act is personal. Just know that it is filled with tragedy and violence.
It’s also fading away.
This always happens to me.
They leave my head.
The dreams, that is.
I usually tend to remember the last, or more memorable parts of my dreams.
This happens because as soon as I wake up, those are the parts that my head recounts.
Over and over again.
Maybe that repetition is a form of distraction to stop me from recalling the other parts of my dream.
Was I wired to do that?
The honing in on a couple of details strips me of memory.
My close reading analysis skills came back to bite me in the ass.
Sometimes I find myself questioning.
Why did I dream of this?
What is my subconscious trying to tell me?
I hate that. I hate that dreams could be reflections of my subconscious.
It makes me feel weird.
If I dream like this, what does it say about me?
God, get out of my head. Stop trying to convince me that I’m some evil person with evil intentions.
I do love my dreams, however.
Even my nightmares.
Even when I wake up with tears in my eyes.
I love them because they make me proud.
Proud that my brain has the ability to paint such beautifully complex images.
Like movies.
My dreams are like movies.
Each one of them, even the scary ones, is a motion picture.
Created for my brain, by my brain.
That is why I am never scared to dream.
Because the idea of dreaming excites me.
What am I watching tonight?
Will it star that boy that I’ve had my eye on all week?
Will it reflect my own interpretation of the last film my dad showed me?
Will it illustrate the memories I so often replay in my head?
Or will you infuriate me with a cameo of that person that I try so hard to forget exists.
That’s the thrill of it.
The thrill of surprise.
The beauty of enigma.
I’ll never know.
What I do know is that regardless of how I wake up, each movie never goes without recognition.
Each of them is carefully thought through and understood.
Or try to be understood.
You’d think that movies that come from me are easier to comprehend than ones that come from others.
They’re not.
If anything, they’re even more difficult.
All of my movies are inchoate.
And they will remain so.
Some nights, if I’m lucky, I catch the sequel.
I can appreciate sequels, but only ones that one up the first.
Like The Godfather.
I enjoy watching the sequel because I pick up on things that I hadn’t caught before.
Make new decisions that she didn’t make in the first.
Talk to different people, and get to the root of the problem quicker.
Logically, it simply may be a form of deja vu.
But it’s not.
Because I dream about the same things
many times.
I have recurring dreams if you will.
Sometimes years apart.
I am granted the ability to relive moments in time.
Dreaming is my own form of time travel.
But sometimes they disappear.
Sometimes I can’t remember.
And it makes me sad.
She worked so hard.
She worked so hard to perfect the production, the casting, and the score.
Just for them to be forgotten.
To be another one of those student experimental films that everyone overlooks.
There is always that small group of critics though.
Who understands the significance of this experimental.
Yes, she might have made it for her film class on mise en scène study,
But without it, her career would cease to exist.
It helped her find her unique style.
The style that everyone so desperately wants to achieve.
And although forgotten,
They are so important.
Maybe she forgets them too.
Maybe she lets them run away from her mind because they’re not her.
They’re not her style.
Not the one that they know and praise her for
But all dreams are important ones.
They are all beautiful ones.
And they are all dreams that make her.
They are all dreams that make me.
Piece reflection:
I have decided that I will not write piece reflections on my creative writing anymore. Because when I do, I take away from your own interpretation by giving you mine. There are so many things that I can tell you about this piece and what each of my words actually mean. The spacing, the punctuation, the flow. If you want to call this poetry, fine, then be my guest. But I am not a poet. But only tell me that this is poetry after you look at my work, read it, think about it, go to sleep, dream about it, wake up, and read it again. I guess in that manner I might be a poet. I don’t know. I think I am just trying to hit 1000 words. Okay, bye.
I’m back.
I wonder if you realize that it is my intention to sound obscure and arguably illiterate. It’s an art form. An art form that derives from the one of David Lynch. I hope you don’t think that I am incapable of following the conventional standards of the English language. I am. I choose not to. And that’s the definition of art. My choices are art. My words are art. Even if they don’t make sense, know they were placed with intention. Every single thing I write, I write with intention. And you know that. Because that’s all I talk about.
Upon further thought, I’ve realized that a lack of explanation and reflection might be detrimental to my work and me later on. Like Sappho, and many other ancient poets, only fragments of their work have survived; much less their thought processes. If I don’t tell you what went through my head then how will you ever know what I mean?
I think I’ve thought of the perfect resolution: tell you later.
Just make sure to remind me.
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