Silhouettes In The Night

It took many months to determine what my reality is for myself, and how I would come to terms with my issues. At the time, and in many ways is still an issue, that fact that I would avoid certain things that brought back memories.

Many of my nightmares began to happen and bleed through in my personal life when I was dating my ex boyfriend, although technically it was an unofficial date. The thing about dating guys is sometimes you want to fix them. For me, I had just recovered from the experience of being rejected passive aggressively by a high school friend, and still had negative association with certain colors in my mind. The cult was about blond aliens often called Nordics. I had grown my interest in certain shoes and sandals at the time, and therefore would fantasize about blond women in that way. My life became a kind of mental compartmentalized dichotomy: like human blonds in Jesus sandals, but only "respect" blond aliens as gods.

I had images of my mind of my ex best friends second girlfriend, how she would be in provocative positions wearing those sandals, and how I would avoid these fantasies avoiding the trigger of my ex boyfriend telling me what clothes were right to wear and how I should wear them. I new I didn't want to be like him, and he would treat me like I was a she-him. It became apparent over time that he was self-hating and gay. Others aspects of his beliefs indicated neo-nazism. I would do anything to push the memories of him away, even watching hyper political talking heads. All the while pictures older blond aliens with pigtails on their heads, wearing Jesus sandals. And all my mind could think of was my own telepathic fears; how one day he said he cold teach me how to read others minds. How he could go inside my mind in dreams if he wanted to. So I lived in constant fear with somebody knocking on my inner door.

I wanted be his raven.

Nevermore.

Sometimes even those you life with that you can't trust are the only ones that you can trust, at those times them being the only ones to keep you from becoming a full member of that electronic cult. I wanted to slam my inner door, and keep it shut with a bolt. Because on some level I wanted him to not touch me there, even though he had never touched me. Because after a point he asked me why I wipe my butt, and suggested new kinds of toilets for me to use. He wanted me to engage in caloric restriction, and consume hyper laxatives. That's when I made the decision.

I'm going to leave this relationship.

I had a mind trick that enables me to live the inner workings of his mind; I pretended to an undercover agent, who dreamed of becoming part of beauty pageants. And so I looked up how to stealthily avoid cults.

I eventually got rid of them all.

Transitioning to the new life was difficult; it become impossible to keep up with cleaning myself, and at times I chose to cut myself. A lot of my writing changed to increasingly dystopian in nature. I tried to rationalize how he was, whether it was nurture or nature.

But eventually I began to forget.

Mind mind saved itself.

Beyond the dreamer's edge there are strange men in armored suits, who wear big black combat boots. Who spy on survivors of imaginary cults in my mind, and I would role play as a dark messiah. This was more I had converted to Satanism reluctantly, and I still find myself wondering, will I need to withdraw silently.

And recede into the darkness of my mind. Where I no longer know who I am, wear dreams bleed with reality. The reality of made of pasts, or are they? I can never be sure.

So be your own dark messiah.

Find your on individual Satanic mark.

Sometimes one second guesses themselves, at least it was merely a dream. The question is why to dream the wrong ending at all. I thought I had it all, I thought I knew everything. And then she, the blond woman in the dark, come into my inner life and showed up. Almost as if to mock me.

There are no words to convey my sorrows, the feeling of blood draining my very marrows. In the world beyond the dreamer's edge, in the world of sparrows, crows, and ravens, there was her. It was a rough start to a love beyond love, a connection beyond time and space. For it made me understand my own issue and blond women, and my own inner struggles. The romance of mortals cannot comprehend it, for I had avoided brainwashing and came to associate blond with brainwashing. At first I had met her avoiding her gaze. There was something about the nature of being blond that scared me, and made me alone again to feel like my inner child. The wild life of the nocturne abyss. And yet as I dreamed a kidnapping by my own desires, I began to regret watching her rolling, rolling, and rolling away into night in the cart of steel tires.

It was execution day. The day she would lose her head. My mind split into different directions, with the image of her forming a kind of duality. She would appear as a demon in the night, take away deservedly by inner knights. And yet part of made had a kind of sympathy for the demonic. For the demon in wooden shoes was just like me, and me like her. For something had hinted about her lack of trust, as I arrived and they exposed her bare bust. Her chest shook as her neck was placed on the block. I was split between different choice, tormented by cackling angelic voices. Yet the angels were no angels at all, and the demons were no demons at all. And the storm clouds covered the inner skies. Farewell to the world of cherry pies.

And thus the choice was taken. I was my mind given into personal lies.

The ax touched her neck, and then raised as high as it could go. The thing about crescent shapes is they crush through neck and bone, for that demonic elf girl who did not atone. And yet part of me felt as her, dying on the headman's block.

The ax fell, the beheading was botched.

It took one more stroke, and her head finally fell into the basket. I saw briefly the image of her convulsing body, exposed and lifeless.

And then I was jolted from the nightmare,

The elf girl was myself, and what I hated.

I wanted to cut it all away.

There was a time when I could not dream, for me who could tear reality at the seam. The few times I could dream, I dreamed of chasing midnight Knights singing to do to me far worse things than losing my head. To become one of them, the serial killers of the night. But I was different.

I was a dreamer.

I could change the world. And in this world beyond the dreamer's edge, there was a faint promise, a promise that I could make to myself. That I would respect myself, and my own mind. To never dream again.

To never live again. I woke up seeing a spider, it was the size of a toy poodle. It would come at me and strangle me in the night. And I would scream and wake up my parents I lived with at the time. It was the point in time when I began to have night terrors nightly, and began withdraw subtly and slightly. For the soldiers so knightly, stalk me in my own torn reality become real things in and of themselves.

They were the silhouettes they torn the night.

They night they came to take me home.

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