Okay, hate me if you must, but I have no remorse. I just hope this doesn't offend anyone if you identify with it negatively. But believe me; I doubt you could any more than I do. So if it bothers you, suck it up.
Boogity
Muses
She lay in bed looking up at the ceiling, the little popcorn texturing offering no relief to her boredom. She'd lain in bed for two hours this evening alone, unable to sleep and wide awake.
This night was no strange occurrence. It was one in an endless series of thought induced wakefulness. She was physically and mentally exhausted- all these nights of endless insomnia were really taking their toll- but she couldn't achieve that blissful state of stupor that would allow her to slip off into a healing slumber.
Something was keeping her up. Thoughts of her favorite fantasy world swirled in her brain. Labyrinth. Jareth. All the mysteries and enticement of a fantastic storyline complete with enough ambiguity to make it the perfect fodder for the imaginative writer. Worlds without end were waiting to be created, infinite possibilities and interpretations to be explored, and her muses were all spinning like dervishes in her brain, urging her to get up and slam out some of the plots. Anything to bring these fantastic images to life. Anything to share the visions with others.
But it always left her so drained. She always felt so used and empty when she was done, when the muses were placated and had left her alone, a rag tossed in a heap when its services were no longer important.
But at least she would finally be able to sleep.
These muses of hers were killing her body. They were training it mercilessly to be unresponsive to any sedative aside from the catharsis of a story well turned. It was a vicious cycle, twirling and spinning in a vortex that only ever had one ending.
But she didn't know that. She thought that she was exorcising the plot demons. No one told her that she was only making them stronger. No one ever told her the true reason you close your eyes against the boogey man: if you can't see it, it doesn't exist. If you don't validate it, it disappears. If you don't feed it, it will die. Just like goldfish. But she'd never even had goldfish. She was the perfect, unprotected participant.
And Jareth loved her for it.
He loved her like he loved all his loyal Listians. They were so generous. They fed him regularly. They provided him with all the sustenance he required and he had to give them very little in return. The accommodating gits were often willing to pay their own compensations, leaving him out of it entirely. They would create nice little tales centering around themselves with him as the hero who would provide them with love. They went so far as to impersonate him online so that he didn't have to do anything aside from make the occasional visitation, and that only under dire circumstances when there was a dream famine.
Because Jareth was a being of magic and lived off of dreams, just like thousands had before him. He wasn't unique per se; he just happened to be really good at what he did.
Dreams have intrinsic power. They're electrical impulses, little sparks thrown off by the neurons in the mind. They crackle and spark with energy, tickling up the mylinated sheaths, exploding off endings. And that energy is important to the creator. It flows throughout their minds and seeps into all the appropriate places. It soothes their subconscious. It solves problems that the waking mind couldn't fix. It nurtures the imagination. It offers emotional healing and a reserve of fantasy to protect the delicate psyche of the dreamer from the harsh glare of reality. It's like the proton version of blood: nutrient rich light matter that only the mind can utilize.
Well, the mind and Jareth.
Jareth tapped into these reserves. He interrupted the flow and redirected it to himself. He would dig in like a true parasite, slurping it greedily and becoming stronger as his host dried up from the lack. Anemia of the soul.
The dream bits would flow into his cells, bathing them with their power. He absorbed it as hungrily as any blood vampire and sat back to wait for more.
Meanwhile, the dreamer noticed a feeling of incompletion, a definite sixth sense that something was missing. The world would seem darker; more shades of grey and infinitely less green. Voices would be harsher, lights brighter, alleys more dangerous and cruelty more glaringly obvious in the world around them. Jareth would have stolen their protective reserves when he leeched away their dreams.
As a result they would flee deeper into their fantasies. Their minds would work double time to make a beautiful place in their brain for them to retreat to, desperate to make up for the loss of their natural barriers.
And the Goblin King would have more sustenance. The dreamer would feel more and more empty, more and more dissatisfied with the real world, and would spend more and more of their precious brain power trying to fill the gaps in their psyche.
Jareth, ever the resourceful man, the unabashed dream tick, would take the surplus and build intricate traps. He'd turn into an individualized muse and send images and promptings to the right people. Movie industry people. Artist and puppetry people. Rock star people. And they, in turn, would create something wonderful, something that would inspire more dreams and more writing efforts.
From there it was a small matter of whispering hopes and reminders in the ears of susceptible writers. A little plot snippet. A wonderful phrase. A great mental image. He could afford to lose a little of his mental leechings. It was a good investment, one will very satisfactory returns. His listians never failed to deliver the dreams and stories that would keep him going.
There were different types of dreams. Like flavors in an ice cream shop. One dreamer was always good for a vanilla dream- something steady and solid, guaranteed to satisfy without throwing in any unexpected turns. One was good for a rocky road- delicious and perfectly nutty. One was good for a mint chocolate chip- cool and refreshing, new and delicious. One was a lemon sorbet- tart and hard to swallow but appealing in its strangeness.
Each had their strengths and weaknesses, and each contributed to a Goblin King's healthy and balanced diet. Those who had no talent and no shine were still important- they gave the king the bulk fiber he needed to move the rest along.
And over the years these dreamers faded away. They would drag themselves from their computers, guilty at finding more love and solace amongst invisible strangers than they did in 'real' life. They would slough off to interact with something tangible, building whatever sort of life for themselves that they could, away from the double edged sword of their incubus inspired fantasies.
But always they would be drawn back. Jareth, greedy being he was, never let them go for long. He'd allow them to recharge, let them look elsewhere for something to fill their lives, something to be real to them, more real than he was. It was necessary. You always fatten the calf before you sacrifice it.
In the end, always, no matter how hard they fought, he would own them. They would be his little, willing batteries. He would be written on every spark they ever emitted. He would have carved the channels of their minds with a capitol 'J'.
And they would thank him for it. They would write more desperately, aching to get out one more poisonous chapter before their induced mental exhaustion would lay them out, only to disappear long enough to start it all again.
And the Goblin King sat on his throne, lazily tapping a boot with his riding crop, and was appreciative of every flavor they let him taste, especially when they asked for so little in return.
Dedicated to E.S.T.E.E.M. and Zigs and Jade, who shared some thoughts with me. All you others- Don't hate me! The evil Jareth muse made me do it! Review, or I'll tell Jareth that your dreams taste like chocolate.