Lovecraft’s pillow

Another three weeks before home, and I’ve already started packing impatiently as if the flight was tomorrow. I guess I can’t wait for another Fascination Street experience.

My dreams are bordering on madness; sometimes, they appear so vivid that I tell myself in my dream that it’s only a dream, and I would tell myself that three times.

My mind is going beyond the limits of sanity because I’m hungry. I haven’t even started this self-imposed diet, and the transition is already suggesting deprivation.

Last week’s dream was bestial. I won’t elaborate, but it was like this.

Last night I had to decide whether to take a trip on a ghost train. I remember a black circle-shaped door. The door was a massive graffiti on the wall, illustrating a pale, dark-haired woman – the door was her mouth. The bell was in her nostril. Her eyes were ghost white. I didn’t go inside because I was distracted by other things. A lot was already happening outside, around me – something like a riot, I don’t quite remember. I was selling designer lip balm at some point.

I think my pillow has Lovecraft’s perspiration of poisonous murk.

Do you reckon Ellen P. will like these dreams?

In my dreams, desire is androgynous, which I find somewhat worrying.

The month of the Taurus has come to an end, and I had attempted to occupy myself a little longer with nihilism. Where do emotions go otherwise, if there’s no hangman to offer them to? If you hold on for too long, they’ll corrode after time; they’ll be useless and no longer easy for the heart to digest.

I keep masking my self-pity. I don’t even care; you seem to care more about it than me. It’s not healing me, it’s scarring me. Maybe I’ve become hungry after three years of celibacy.

I recall losing my virginity twice. The third time will be a new experience – sad or wild; I don’t care.

If my interests are shocking and morbid, then it’s because others are boring. I hate it when people ask what I write in my blog – it’s none of your business, and yet, you can see for yourself.

I write what you don’t talk about. And I use creative modifications to make it sound less nasty, whereas you continue to hide your soul from me, I don’t even know you. I’m tired of it.

Sycophants and opportunists. You make me sick.

I shall start the incision right here ______________________

Let’s check what’s inside that pillow, then plunge into delirium.

I promise it won’t be that bad. The only impediment we have is your fear.

The suture can wait.

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