dreamcancer

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I stare into the sinking sun, pointing at holes in the red sky.
The sunlight talks of strange rumour, speaking of dying lands with endless night.
I force a gesture, and some halfway laughter.
‘Just vivid pictures, leftovers from cans of diet soda.’ I tell myself, ‘Just smoke lost in mist.’
I then step aside and watch a great bulbous tumour of wasted imagination make its way through my dream.
I smile as I take the poison.

Featured post:
by iMalone

I Ain’t Jokin’ Woman, I’ve Got To Ramble

Last modified on 2007-10-26 08:19:30 GMT. 2 comments. Top.

Dream Cancer. Sounds exotic. I wonder if such a thing really exists. Truthfully, I think it does; my sense of wonderment revolves more around whether it would be appropriate nomenclature to describe what I have.  Oft I wonder if I am the only one stricken with such a befuddling sense of cripple by this effect.

I dream in images. I dream in words. I dream in prose. I dream in verse.

I dream in emotions. I dream in scores.  I dream with devotion. And So I dream some more.

Now Ain’t that cute for a couplet. Or four, as the case seems to be in this scenario.

I wonder if Cancer would be as painful as my dreams are vivid. Intense. Tortious. Infuriating. I’d be inclined to believe it is, going purely on empirical observations of people who do actually suffer/have suffered from cancer. Not to say I’m trying to belittle people who have battled cancer, inconsequential of the outcome of said battle; as collateral to my consideration, though, and you can call me an asshole for this admission, I could give a fuck. But I don’t.

It has come to a stage where I often wonder whether I dreamt something, or merely imagined it. What’s the distinction in the two, though? Does imagination require an active manipulation, or is it simply your brain’s reaction to your faculties of consciousness taking in, and subsequently churning out, random stimuli? And what if this stimuli is not truly random? What if, again, at the command of consciousness, your faculties take in available stimuli at their respective whims? A perfume, a strand of hair, the cut of a nail, the strain in someone’s temples, Bone-white knuckles at the clenched end of a fist; as opposed to the buzzing of the train’s engines, the airflow coming through the ventilation chamber, the too-short skirt the chubby-yet-cute Polish girl was wearing on the bus, the mist rising from the morning dew on the roads. Do we develop dispositions to certain inputs, and discriminate others willingly? Or, rather, Consciously?

And the images hit you in the brain, a million at the same time. And you’ve made your own short film before the credits can be taken down. And you don’t know whether it was a dream, or just your imagination. But, all of a sudden, you’ve come to, drenched in a cold sweat, the sub-celsius morning temperature notwithstanding. And you remember a face. And it’s contempt and disdain. And its memories. And you feel (in the Latin sense of the word) Compassion. And you wonder where it began to crumble. And you wonder where it all went wrong.

And you wonder whether it will ever be in your grasp to fix things. If they’re in a state to be fixed.

This is my Cancer. Welcome to my dreams. Please refrain from smoking, out of consideration of any other patrons that may be joining you on your evening in with us.

We hope that you will enjoy your stay.