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(Actual writings from one's little book that one writes in while half-asleep)



Origin Date - 07.07.09



Act I



"I can dream again! And upon these twilighted hours was I visited upon, a somnition both new and familiar. It began with a scene, from what we shall agree to call my campus, for which I now fulfill my duties as Stage Manager. Perhaps Gerard and I were discussing details, and I (fascinated with a multi-hued cloak that hung from the back wall) gave it the title of "Manora", I recall. It was a collage of different-coloured patches laid out in a lovely symmetrical pattern. I became intent on translating the meaning from its scheme and geometry, to which my professor confessed that he had planned to pose such a challenge to the other students, but had forgotten all but thusfar. The next day is when this was was to take place.





Act II



There is a reoccuring tale that has cycled through a great number of past dreams; For when I experienced it now, the myth (though not all ways physically embodied) was one of great familiarity and certainty. It is about a girl who is buried with her 250 dolls in a small graveyard. The ground is a sandy brown, very light and dusty. And I was witness tp watching a few "dim-sums" interring a few of the dolls' graves; To which , thankfully, the disturbed became animate and gave these young ones a gruesome death. All peace had but returned when myself and "she" had finally taken our first gaited steps upon the land. We took care not to disturb any of the sites, and took to the path I have indicated towards the mausoleum, a place to seek knowledge.

There was a lift one has to take to get to its lower level, to its heart. However, there were the remains of a doll jammed into the door, which became animate as we opened those. Afeard somewhat, myself and she made retreat from this structure and were accosted by even more animates outside. I remember we offered no hasty apologies, but rather, expressed concern as to the attack. They appeared to quell their rage, and I became aware of a duty I was to perform in this sanctuary: Many of the dolls had become broken and separated from their graves; So I was to search the grounds and lead them back to the ground's Keeper, which stood directly in front of the Mausoleum.



((I'm glad I was able to return to this dream, for the scenery is so vivid and lovely...I only regret I cannot reproduce it to any degree of justice, at least, not yet....perhaps one day...))



~Iris

It seems there is treatment for one's "condition" ( Such, that would be more expected from the doctors and nurses of Bedlam, rather than a right modern hospital setting); Both methods are interrelated.



The first method: submersion in cold water



This method will never fail to shock one's senses every time one will utilize it, for one lacks bodily insulation. It is nearly a maddening experience, for one will convulse violently as one first steps into the tub. However, once those feelings subside, one assures you it is quite the pleasurable experience, as if one is given new birth within.





The second method: blood letting



As this condition relates directly to the excess of body temperature (what is excess for one, would not be considered as such for any other person; one's body needs to be at a nominally cooler state than most mortals), this only seems natural that removing a sample of this other fluid might lessen the pressure that drives one to monumental torment.



So, there it is, plain and simple. One has a life-long condition (One all ways thought herself a genuine psychotic, but now there is proof of such). If ignored, one's body and mind will be consumed entirely. This is not something one would prefer happen

One's skin crawls. This started two or so days ago, in varied localized places, but now the tingling has spread. One would itch the rashless areas (and one has itched them for brief moments, but finding no relief save marks where one's long nails clawed over the dermis, one quickly gained composure, letting the intense sensations continue). One does not believe this to be allergies, for that experience is something of a completely different coin. What is this, and why did one find oneself thrusting those very same nails into her flesh, nearly to the point that one thought the skin would part. That would have happened, assuredly, if one did not keep her nails blunted at the end, albeit they are of an almond shape. It was but the smooth and round edges that prevented deep wounds. Marks remain, small crescents grouped in 3's and 4's along my arms, and various joints, but the intensity has subsided a bit. What were those feelings, when my own flesh appeared to be nearly unwrought? One seemed like a beast trying to free itself from a set of shackles, a straightjacket, or a prison of tightly-bound untreated leather.



They are still there, reminding me...



~Iris

This is something I have proven to myself (many times painfully). But traverse a bit into any online forum of any genre: "Non-exclusive beastiality" or "People who wish to have hot steamy osteo-sex with Shakespeare's corpse" (I know someone who might be a member of one of those, in so many words), and you will ALL WAYS find one subject or thread in particular. This being the "What do you regret (most)?". Well, guess what, bitches, I don't regret a damn decision in my life; This isn't to say that I have never felt its pangs wash over me. But as it stands, and as it has all ways stood, the aftermath of the paths I have chosen gives me such presence of mind, that all those feelings wash away. Yeah, I never got to experience "such and such" and forthwith, but that does not matter. No matter what torment I faced because of the roads I chose to stay along side...I'm not going to use that stereotypical phrase, for maybe all this was for the worse...I wouldn't have it any other way.



~Iris

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Bloodmother
23:34 Jul 29 2009

regret+ digression= degret. I'm with you cause how else are you gonna learn? Oops, I'll never do that again, or at least not in that particular way.

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Origin Date: 06.27.02



Origin Time : Early Morning (pre-twilight hour)



Events:



Dreams, especially my own, can be such grand experiences; Assuredly, they are fleeting and non-sustaining while we exist in a physical plane. However, what would one do if part of that dream, something that seemingly did not belong, follows us into the physical realm?



I do recall faint details of this nocturnal operetta. To which, I will try and transcribe what I remember "seeing" there...I daresay, I have forgotten purpose, if there ever was one.



~I recall quite vividly a cathedral-like interior with stone supports riddled through the room and eloquent stained glass (portal-shaped) high upon the walls. Light streamed through quite precisely in a yellowing hue. A skeletal figure lay upon the floor, with sword, a small heater-style shield, and wisps of hair (black, I presume) still upon its person.



Note: from a hastily-done sketch, I would ascertain that it stood up and became animate at one point, but this did not seem to be of any more significance to what utterly happened.



Well, it was not soon afterwards that I found myself in a sub-level of this place. Dimly illuminated, stone, rows and columns of support pillars (in fact it was nothing but a grid of them), and a few inches of water lay silently upon the floor. The stones were a sickly green and grey, I would assume.



Yellow eyes, and a figure seemingly without form, though it seemly vaguely shaped as having a human head and shoulders. Black all save the eyes, which stared back at me from well across the room. It was as if I had blinked for not but a moment, and the form had instantly, in perfect stealth and silence, appeared right before me. Its eyes stared ever the same, a paralyzing stare.



However, I believe this form made a fatal mistake, for its form began to shift and reform, until it took the visage of a very black panther, with those same yellow eyes.



Note: I theorize that its paralyzing effect ended when such occurred because it took a form that I could recognize and define.



I was able to fend it off through some manner I have since forgotten, at the peak of which, it spilled over into my waking perceptions. Its image stood there across from where I slept (on the floor on this particular night), and then faded, very precisely, into the image of my large wooden dresser.



Note: this dresser has since been removed from my possession. Its current owner does have a streak of bad luck in them, but this may be entirely unrelated.



~Iris

COMMENTS

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Bloodmother
23:35 Jul 29 2009

Love the Note!

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