cygna_hime: (Default)
I woke from dream into dream, each mundane - in two of them I started cleaning my room, in the third I went to the kitchen and ate a brownie, distressed by the other two - and in each I was back in my old house, a fact which I recognized about each dream as soon as I "woke" from it. It was my old room, full of my old life's detritus. It was my old kitchen, which I could navigate blind.

And now I'm homesick, lying in my bed in my room. I'm homesick for a home that isn't mine anymore, that no longer exists.

Maybe it would be different if I'd been there for the move, if I'd been the one to clear out all these at-one-time-precious objects, if I knew what had happened to them. Maybe it's a closure I'm missing.

It sucks, regardless.
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I woke up about 1/2 hour ago from an exceptionally vivid nightmare in which I (and it was first-person me this time, which is unusual and made it more vivid) seemed to be starring in a psychological thriller/murder mystery/horror story. When I woke up, I wrote down as much of the plot as I can remember on a notebook I keep for dreams and things I think of right before sleep. However, I'm still twitching with adrenaline and scared there's a murderer in my house. (No lie: I was terrified to climb the stairs, because in my dream there were several murder attempts that involved stairs, and I woke up during the last one, which involved dropping something from above the stairwell, but I woke up when we had just ducked away from the stairs [into, now I think of it, my parents' bedroom] and hadn't seen what it was, so I felt like it might still happen.)

*twitches, looks around* I hope I calm down sometime before noon. (Goddammit, part of me says, I got to bed what, five hours ago?) (Wow, another part of me says, that dream could make a kickass story. You should write it.)
cygna_hime: (Default)
Last night I dreamed about the Chicago trip. IT was a full-cast production, too, complete with divvying up beds by myself, [ profile] stormflare, [ profile] phage1109, and [ profile] sallarafax. It was remarkable only because the dream ended as I was lying in the hotel bed, so that when I truly awoke I was not entirely sure I had.

Subconscious is vaguely anxious but still excited about the trip. Ph33r my self-analysis!
cygna_hime: (Default)
So. Last night I had the following dream (to which I attribute the fact that I woke as tired as when I went to bed):

At some point, I found at a library I do not usually frequent a copy of Jane of Lantern Hill by L.M. Montgomery which was in much better condition than the one at "my" library. I recall being temporarily unable to recall whether it was or was not a romance, then thinking (as though from outside my dreaming self) that I knew perfectly well it was a story about a girl and her father, and ew.

I do not recall anything for a while...up until the point at which I became a drug dealer. No seriously. I went out with these two other girls who seemed vaguely familiar and one of whom was blondeish, and my job was to hold the drugs in the pocket of my hooded choir sweatshirt. We went down my road to one end, at which point a pair of people whom I (in-dream and otherwise) recognized as familiar faces from the Latin convention last summer. I remember that the name of one of the drugs was "Narnia". Make of that what you will.

A few days later, I was in what I called in the dream a run-down community center, helping distill drugs in a broken sink, when my mother walked in. Although I was worried about how she would react, she just said that she had briefly done the same thing when she was younger.

Then the twenty-three-hour days I was pulling to go to school and sell drugs started to be too much, and I quit. That's all I remember.


Possibly my subconscious thinks I need to think more about reality and my original fiction than fandom. Either way, I think we can conclusively say that (1) my worldbuilding is very strange, and (2) I am never without a book.

Now I want to reread Jane of Lantern Hill.
cygna_hime: (Default)
I had a beautiful dream last night. Really beautiful.

It was, like so many of my best dreams, a story. A comic book, this one was, I remember opening it. Sandman, of sorts, but in a way different. It was Beauty and the Beast story, of sorts, only somehow starring the Dreams opposite one another. My waking mind knows that to be a)impossible and b)disturbing, but in the story it was different, and very beautiful. There was some gorgeous art, too, that I remember.

I have to make it into an original story. I couldn't, simply could not, just let it go. It was beautiful.

Lucien...the library is as wonderful as legend has. Thanks for letting me visit.


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April 2019

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