Odd that I'd read of dreams in this way while being assaulted by them. When in action, they are all-consuming, and I am convinced of their seeming reality. One day it may be best never to surrender their truth to the pull of this world. Things are not looking particularly good at this time. Everything is so confused and unreadable. I have no idea what is to come, though I fear for the worst, while dreaming the best.
A mark on my leg signifies the phone call I received. A distant voice spoke of uneasy commotion at an indistinguishable location on the coast. Those gathered had long ago lost the ability to understand the events transpiring. Waves of movement or emotion crashed against the booth, and washed the phone from grasp. It hung swinging amidst the chaos before it was cut completely away by the sharp attack on that beach.
I reached to my tongue with a newly-bathed finger, and wiped the inky trail clean from the back of my calf. No message.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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