Dreamland or Mind-fuckland

Dreams are our inner most desires and fears materialised in a scene. Some say that it's the only way our subconscious gets relief. It's how we can relieve the pressure of all those pent up emotions. Sometimes I agree. Yet other times I think it's just our mind placing us in a dead end road and make us face all that we try to hide during daylight. Because really Mr. Scumbag brain why would we want to visit something that we've been trying to suppress? Doesn't that seem a bit stupid? For all the intelligence you have, well, you can be quite ignorant.

Why would someone we're trying to forget dash into a dream all shiny and perfect reminding us of all the reasons why they were in our life in the first place? Why not make them look shitty and horrible so that we'll feel good with ourselves and that we made the right choice? Why would you allow the widow to dream about her beloved husband just so she'll wake up feeling a bigger void than before? Why would you let a father dream of his lost son when all it will do is make him hear the silence in his house ten times more? Does it really make sense?

 And why would you project the everyday fear into an every night dream? A recurring dream were we walk with dread knowing something bad will happen but we don't know what? And then when we remember it is all too late? Why make me dream of wolves through most of my childhood? Why make my beloved dog turn into my enemy? Why make my family die?  Why make me fight with my friends? Why do I regularly end up alone? Why make me wake up in shock every night for as many nights as you please? Why make me wake up with a smile only to realise it was just a dream? That that beautiful scene, those arms around my waist were all just figments of my imagination?

Why can't it be a simple dream? Why can't it be a silly cartoon? Or maybe the future as we want it to be? Or just a walkthrough the past? The good past not the bad past? Or why can't they just be black outs? If we need to dream then so be it but why must we remember it?

Oh brain you are a many splendid thing but tactful, that you are not.



There came a point where he realised that he had no more feelings to feel. A point where he could see things and actually have no opinion about it. No hurt. No guilt. No shame. No happiness. A big hole of emptiness. Just like the house he just bought.

He sits and sips his beer as he watches the street starting to stir. People take out their garbage. The neighbour walks his dog. Kitchens light up and you can see the women making coffee and lunch, and the families joining slowly. Some soft chatter for the house that slept like a baby the night before. Silence and passive aggressive pounding of mugs as a result of last night's fight in another. A cat goes through the trash. The perky neighbour finished her stretching and starts her jog and flashing him with a set of perfectly white teeth as she passed. The road cleaners come and he listens to their chitchat. More houses stir. People leave for work. Others start cleaning. Children go to catch the bus.

 And he sat there on the porch. Cigarette in one hand and beer in the other. He remembers dimly what it was like to be like them. To have a family, to have a purpose. To wake up with a plan. But the memories were cushioned by a cloak of numbness. It was like watching someone else's life.

And he wondered when it was that from a young man full of life he became a cynic old man too numb to feel sorry for himself.




I never felt this kind of hatred. It grows from my stomach and spreads through the whole body like fire, making me tremble. It feels horrible. It feels good. It makes me nauseated. It gives me thrills.

I hate you. I hate your goody-two shoes act. I hate that you make yourself a martyr. I hate that you pretend to feel other people's pain. I hate your cowardice. I hate your voice. I hate your shitty opinions. I hate the make-believe stories you try to feed me. I hate the soap opera life you think you have. I hate hating you. I hate the fact that I'm tainted with this awful feeling. I hate the knot in my stomach every time i see you. I hate the fact that I have to pretend to like you. That I have to smile. I hate that I can't tell you what I'm feeling because you can't handle it. I hate how you turn everything about you. How you think the world revolves around you. I hate the fact that I still care about you. I hate that I don't want to see you harmed although you've perished a million times in my mind. I hate how you hurt me. I hate how you ignore me. I hate how you don't even have the tiniest idea of how I feel. I hate that you think everything is peaches. I hate that you think you can treat me this way and get away with it. I hate that I let you get away with it.

I hate myself. I hate myself because I'm writing this blog. I hate myself because this blog means that you got under my skin. And just to be specific you doesn't stand for 'int' it stands for 'intom'. I hate all of you that got under my skin. I hate that I got to know what hatred feels like. I hate that I see myself in your eyes. I hate that some of the most important decisions, ideas and values were influenced by you, because I didn't want to become like you. I hate that I ever loved you. I hate the fact that deep down I still do.  And most of all I hate the fact that you'll probably keep affecting me through all my life.

 You'll be the ghosts I'm running away from. You'll be my shady past I won't want to talk about. You'll be the ones I'll blame when relationship after relationship goes down the sewer. And yet I know that doing that would mean that I have become just like you.

I hate the fact that I seem to be stuck in a vicious cycle and there's no way out.