I woke up from an astonishing dream, one that I had in a little bone box called home, a dream of life and death and sex, a dream of taboos and music, rape and love and sorrow and pain and the sea and literary devices and metatext that only the well-read and the weathered travellers through humanity’s books and ideas would fully grasp… but then again, what do I fully grasp? Nothing. It’s all but a blur… I can’t even remember it. I remember bits and pieces, because this dream, just like life, grew with me and I didn’t sit in the mirror of Facebook and Instagram to watch it develop and grow into the monster that it was meant to become. I only felt the last few seconds, the clash, the fight, the rebellion inside me – Architects – the veil that’s been lifted, the mask that fell, Jung, Freud, Adler, the Holy Trinity, the magic disappeared and I am no longer weak because I have true strength and inner beauty, and I believe now, I believe I have a sense of purpose. I think I’m remembering the dream…

 

I’m looking out the window and trying my best to recover from this dream’s shock. How many continents has this dream made me wander on until I realised my true calling? The last few seconds of the dream, probably narrowed down to just a tiny millisecond in my brain, macro versus micro universes, were the ones that revived me and the only ones that made sense. The rest was just a dream. The final bit I remember, and that’s all that matters.

 

I need to find that girl…

 

So I got out of bed, opened my laptop and started stalking the shit out of her ghost-ship Facebook account so I can find traces of her real self. I need to stop her from committing suicide…

 

And it’ll be the end of me if I don’t do it.

 

The end…

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