and then I dream...
Apr. 22nd, 2003 12:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedarksiren2my dreams have been very vivid lately, but harder than ever to describe. Much more like paintings that morph than stories.
One such dream is what I believe my subconscious has done with a song concept. My body, blue and cold, freezing yet somehow comforted in a fetal-position. The water around me - greens and blues, tainted with seaweeds and bubbles. But it's not my breath...it's coming from somewhere else. I am connected though, as if I am in a womb...my body shifts, slowly, languidly...a flash of pink flesh, survival, a warm alpha-wave and water-deafened mumblings. I am entangled in my own fears and joys, yet I am more free than ever.
yup...paintings.
Another, from just the other day...
Sitting on the side of my bed, floating in a void, blackness everywhere, except for him. His name is Q, but I don't remember that until after I wake up. He is dancing, naked and bald, skanking, pirouettes and tangos, maddened steps and jolting stop-motion with fervent fire. Ribbons begin and end in space all around him, coming and going through invisible latches. and I am child-like, in awe, but not quite happy about it all.
He rushes toward me in a flash. I want to flinch, but cannot. He grabs my face with both hands, huge, rough hands with paint or blood on them. He stares into my eyes intently, then his hands are tracing my face, my eyebrows, my nose. He begins running his palms all over my face, up, down, around, back and forth...it is frenzied motion, and I am excited and terrified all at once.
He stops, just below my chin, and brings his hand - which keeps changing from the left to the right, even if he isn't doing it - down to my throat. I can feel the constricting fingers, and although my instincts tell me to struggle, to breathe in spite of his grasp, I do not fight. I sit and stare into his eyes, although he is much more into watching my neck, his hand, the skin wrinkling between his fingers.
His hand loosens slightly, moves slowly, softly up my neck, eventually moving to fingertips and thumbs to my chin. He looks at my chin for a brief second, then into my eyes - his hand grasps my face tightly, making my lips fish-like, and he lays his mouth against mine with strongest intent.
I cannot breathe, he is stealing it all from me.
He pulls away, laughs a sinister, maniacal laugh, and dances away...I realize there are strings holding my bed up in the void, and they snap.
One such dream is what I believe my subconscious has done with a song concept. My body, blue and cold, freezing yet somehow comforted in a fetal-position. The water around me - greens and blues, tainted with seaweeds and bubbles. But it's not my breath...it's coming from somewhere else. I am connected though, as if I am in a womb...my body shifts, slowly, languidly...a flash of pink flesh, survival, a warm alpha-wave and water-deafened mumblings. I am entangled in my own fears and joys, yet I am more free than ever.
yup...paintings.
Another, from just the other day...
Sitting on the side of my bed, floating in a void, blackness everywhere, except for him. His name is Q, but I don't remember that until after I wake up. He is dancing, naked and bald, skanking, pirouettes and tangos, maddened steps and jolting stop-motion with fervent fire. Ribbons begin and end in space all around him, coming and going through invisible latches. and I am child-like, in awe, but not quite happy about it all.
He rushes toward me in a flash. I want to flinch, but cannot. He grabs my face with both hands, huge, rough hands with paint or blood on them. He stares into my eyes intently, then his hands are tracing my face, my eyebrows, my nose. He begins running his palms all over my face, up, down, around, back and forth...it is frenzied motion, and I am excited and terrified all at once.
He stops, just below my chin, and brings his hand - which keeps changing from the left to the right, even if he isn't doing it - down to my throat. I can feel the constricting fingers, and although my instincts tell me to struggle, to breathe in spite of his grasp, I do not fight. I sit and stare into his eyes, although he is much more into watching my neck, his hand, the skin wrinkling between his fingers.
His hand loosens slightly, moves slowly, softly up my neck, eventually moving to fingertips and thumbs to my chin. He looks at my chin for a brief second, then into my eyes - his hand grasps my face tightly, making my lips fish-like, and he lays his mouth against mine with strongest intent.
I cannot breathe, he is stealing it all from me.
He pulls away, laughs a sinister, maniacal laugh, and dances away...I realize there are strings holding my bed up in the void, and they snap.
