DREAMS - Shadows of the Subconscious

The night unfurled its dark tapestry last eve, weaving not one but two visions into the barren wasteland of my dreamless mind. A rarity, like blood-red roses blooming in a crypt, these dreams clawed their way to the surface, leaving me to sift through their murky residue under the cold light of dawn.

The first was a grotesque tableau: a toilet seat, defiled with smears of filth, its porcelain gleam tainted by unspeakable waste. The sight churned my gut, a visceral rebuke of the burdens I carry—stress, regret, the emotional detritus that festers in the shadowed corners of my soul. It was as if my mind, in its gothic fervor, conjured this vile image to scream: Purge, release, let the weight of your inner decay be cast into the abyss. Yet the act of cleansing feels distant, a ritual I cannot yet perform, leaving me to linger in the stench of my own unspoken sorrows.

The second dream thrust me into a chaotic restaurant, a labyrinth of clattering demands and faceless patrons. My login number—some cryptic key to my purpose—slipped through my fingers like ash. Plates, cutlery, the tools of service, vanished into the ether, while my tables swelled with hungry, impatient shadows. I was a specter in my own role, scrambling, inadequate, drowning in the tide of expectations. The message is clear, etched in the frantic pulse of the scene: I am overwhelmed, stretched thin across the jagged edges of life’s relentless grind. The world’s weight presses down, and I am found wanting.

These dreams, twin phantoms of my subconscious, paint a portrait of a soul teetering on the brink. One begs for release, the other cries out under the strain of existence. Together, they form a requiem for the quiet I cannot find, a gothic hymn sung in the key of unrest. I am left to wonder—what must I surrender, and what must I conquer, to silence these nocturnal whispers? For now, they linger, like dust on a forgotten altar, waiting for the next night to stir them anew.

Yours in eternal shadow,