draft.
Chapter 10. The Recollections of a Dream.
"… can you please just tell us these traitors are dead so we, or more to the point, I, don't have to go through this taunting hellish freakshow of seeing these laughing, joyous faces getting off on our, or more to the point, my, discomfort", he dreamingly uttered.
"It would certainly help us, or more to the point, me, to finish that chapter and start anew. You got all Christianified and forgave them did ya?"
dream jump - "Ethically speaking, at what point do you ask yourselves if the 'cure' is worse than the disease?", the peculiar and somewhat suspicious looking Pope inquired.
Restless, and kicking the end of the bed in rem like a lid rider, the dream continued, "It appears things didn't go as planned and noone wants to lose face. Collateral damage for the greater good. It's an easy out… dead hero's".
He turned abruptly on to his back, getting a bit of air as the sheet twisted and a bead of sweat projected and nestled, then delicately glid down the edge of his pillow.
"Keep smoking. KYS. You failed. It was a bad choice. Blah blah blah", reverberated into the dreamscape. "You stacked shit and it was weird and obvious. Feel the love surrounding you. Ready to serve again? Wtf?", hauntingly and erratically echoed.
A car drove passed and a slither of headlight through the slow waltz curtains scanned his face. "A beacon was put on him and the demons circled, then, 'mistakes' were made and he was sold down the river to fucking optics. Talk about learning how the 'real world' works".
dream jump - 'The era of what you wrote, not what I chose to read'.
"Maybe people don't want to participate or 'awaken' because they are well aware of what you are doing and how you can spin it", he murmered. A string of spittle overflowed from his left cheek and soaked into the pillow, "Maybe we all feel like fucking deer in the headlights".
Comfortingly rolling to the fetal position, with hands between his legs, "Why were pictures in my house posted but I haven't posted any pictures from inside your house? Is that showing you're in my corner is it? Just like openly mocking, criticising and insulting my personal, sacred traits. I get it. I'm a fucking gnat and can be taken any time".
He awoke abruptly, sat up startled, and whispered to himself, "This isn't fear of God. It's fear of man".
As the heartrate mellowed, and dozing back off, he mantra'd, but also making a borderline conscious fleeting statement to his aliens, "Of course, I could just be declared delusional and insane if this is all just fantasy right. Another contingency plan I'm sure".
Suddenly, he was in a field of sunflowers, "You think because I lost my lust in life when my soul mate and whole world was taken away, and I fell into 'depression', that making a movie was the fix? I'm not criticising the intent, I'm criticising the judgement". The scowl didn't suit the scene.
"Maybe I'm looking at it the wrong way. You really admired and loved me, and genuinely wanted to help".
All the sunflowers suddenly dropped their heads, "Just by participating here gets you targeted, and all the delusional and salivating get to work. Totally empowered. Totally intrusive. It's madness. Must be so bored or run out of suspects or people to fuck up".
dream jump - You were chosen for a reason.
He lie in the sunflower pasture on his back. All the sunflowers were looking down on him, "Have I really been that bad a person to have deserved all this? Who's fucking idea was this? Is this the great plan to salvage a life and fwens and have babies after the Bush, Clinton, Obama +++ fuckery?"
The sunflowers swayed in chorus, "you didn't have to do anything, except keep on doing what you were doing. It's ok, this will be studied for years".
The flowers stood to attention and stared down the sun, "What the fuck have you all done?"
The scene faded into a yellowy, watery mirage. It was like the ripples spoke, "The years are ticking. The youth is fading.
You want me to love and trust people that have done nothing but fuck me over in life".
He dived out of bed in a youthful manner from yesteryear, skiing to the bathroom in his socks. He turned on the tap, the one's he so proudly replaced so many years prior to spritely up his little humble home, but now no longer cares, and washed his face. Like lowering a blind he slowly squeegeed his face with his palms. He looked at himself in the eye, then checked his teeth, and uttered, "I'm a targeted individual".