I have nightmares, and I can't get them to stop.
I dream about the color of your blood. It comes in endless shades of pain, but the contrast is never as realistic as it used to be. When I wake up, I can't see, but the room is flooded with that color. A different hue for each day of the week. I think it follows a pattern, but every time that I come close to figuring it out, I wake up. However, the color of Monday seems the most endearing.
I dream about the shapes. Squares, and triangles, and octagons. Figures with a hundred sides. At first I thought that they were circles, but circles never end. At least that's what they say. But this shape ends, with the hundredth side, and I awake. I spend my time counting, trying to find the pattern. Tuesdays are particularly amorous.
I dream about disasters. The power of determination has begun to frighten me without remorse. Left and right there are explosions. People are dying, and I'm right in the middle of the slaughtering. I don't know why, but somehow, it's all my fault. I've killed these people, and their blackened flesh and still hearts weigh down my shoulders. There's no pattern to the butchery, but I find that Wednesdays are most nostalgic.
I dream about faces. Some that I know, some that I love, and some that make me desperate to never sleep again. Others that I've never seen before in my life, that are so clear and unforgiving. They lay no blame, which makes me feel all the more responsible. You're supposed to be the beautiful stranger, but fate had its way. I want the faces to follow a pattern, but the only one that shows up repeatedly is your own. Thursdays tend to be the most palpitant, though.
I dream about the voices. Whispers begin with the passing hour, and concentration is near impossible. Sometimes, I'm blessed with a steady crescendo, the entrancing climb to a breathtaking choir of demands. But for the majority of my sleeps, the sensual whispers will pass on to deafening screams. I desire more than anything to find this pattern, to know when the choir will sing me off to sleep. But it's untracable. All I know is that Fridays appear to be the most jubilant.
I dream about memories. Not necassarily my own, but I recognize almost all of them. Sweet and bitter, some meant to be treasured forever, and some that should have been forgotten long ago. Then there are the ones that can't belong to me, but to someone who is just a memory themself. I try to remember you when I wake up, but you refuse to visit me outside of my dreamland. Perhaps a pattern would help me to remember your face, but the memories are in nonsensical order. It seems to me that Saturdays are overwhelmingly terrifying.
And there are the days when I dream about dreams. It's illogical and wasteful, but it's the only way that I can get to you. I go through the colors, and the shapes, and the butchery, and the faces, and the voices, and the memories, and I look for you. When all else fails, I find a pattern in your appearences. I'm sorry, beautiful stranger, but I've stolen your soul and used it to make my dreams comealive. I awake to the color of Sunday. Sunday, I think, is the most unworldly.
As if I could open my eyes on a Sunday morning, and still be lost in my dreams.
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A/N: Yay. I actually liked that, but as always, opinons and CC are welcome. Thanks much to Liv for the beta. She's the best!
Disclaimer: Ooga ooga no own.