Repression of Torture

A somewhat tumultuous day. From stress to relaxation to moody blues to anger to drunken buzz . . . "Life is hard", to quote Adri.

I had a nightmare last night. I usually don't get nightmares and they don't pertain to the "someone's chasing you" "worst day ever" embarassment fiasco flaunted in most pre-teen 80's movies. My dreams deal with killing others, naked zombies that punch me in the balls, old people dead in the freeway being run over by my car outside of a ratty old theme park that should be Six Flags but instead resembles a Ray Bradbury carnival showcasing the rides at Hardees.

Last night's dream was interesting, though. I usually don't care about dreams. Whether it's in movies, people recounting their dreams. This was strange. Strange enough to recount.

I had to kill a bunny with the face of an old human lady.

It was dying anyway, but for some reason I felt like it had a chance to live. It had cancer. I had to strangle it, ravage it, tear off its ears.

It started out as a full 60 year old woman wearing a turquoise blouse and gray slacks, hair pulled back in a pony tail. Her face was sunken, lines all over, gray color. She looked sad. Yet she couldn't talk. I was instructed by some intuition inside that I had to kill her.

I grabbed her neck and started to drain life. Explosions of feelings swept through me. I looked at her. She was crying, her face said "Please don't. I can make it." Maybe it said "I know you have to kill me. But I don't like it." I cried myself, yet continued to tear, strangle, bite. All with my bare hands, I had to kill her.

She wouldn't die.

After a few times, with electric bolt feelings and stress shooting through my head, she turned into a rabbit. I think this pertains to the torture I once submitted a bunny to in kindergarten. I had to take care of the teacher's pet bunny for a weekend, and the whole time I held it by its ears, threw it into the wall, stomped on its back. I hate thinking about what I did. I still feel guilty. Maybe this dream was repressed guilt over what I did some twenty years ago.

The dream ended right before the last squeeze. The squeeze that would end the poor thing's life. She looked at me. Her face telling me everything, no words were necessary. I can't describe it. All I know is that it was the catalyst for waking me up. It was that intense of a look. A plea.

And then . . . push . . .

Basement Jaxx -- "Where's Your Head At?"