nightmare.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a “perfect” dream where everything went they way I wanted it to be. Sometimes, they would begin wonderfully. I’d be skiing down a picturesque slope or receive my letter to Hogwarts. Phenomenal. But there’s always that twist, that horrible feeling, in the back corner of my mind. It might be that one dark cloud in the almost clear blue sky. It might be those unbelievably personal images, a grotesque mixture of reality and fantasy.

I can’t help it.

I can’t face it.

I can’t understand it.

There is no untainted utopia when I sleep. Or anywhere. The imperfection is obvious. I can’t control it, and that is what I fear the most.