I Hate Dreams

[ShiroKirishiki]

I hate dreams.

They are fleeting, hollow.

Empty promises of a better morrow.

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I hate dreams.

Aspirations, and bits of fantasy.

Completely bereft of reality.

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For most, they are a respite. Bits of hope to sprinkle on themselves.

Things to work towards, to escape from their circumstances.

Release, at least temporarily, from the shackles that bind.

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But they are the opposite for me. They are the shackles.

They remind me of reality, rob me of serenity.

After all, once I stop being conscious, I can’t drown out the voices.

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Those little whispers that speak to me. Peek out of the little gaps in my thoughts.

Saying things that I know are true, but don’t want to recognize.

Because if I listen, then it is all I will hear.

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Meditation was not something that I was expecting to take up.

Dad did it sometimes, before he went about his day.

Mom told him it was stupid, that there are better things he could be doing.

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As I breathe as he showed me, the whispers fade.

The shadows from the previous night fade. Everything fades.

I, fade.

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Into the whirlwind of black, to that place I miss.

Snowy mountains, trees that hold the crystals up to the moon.

Glittering stars, beautiful tranquility.

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In the first few moments in that scene, I can almost lose myself.

I can almost forget about the pain. I can almost forget about what’s missing.

I can almost forget myself.

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But then it comes, with haunting smiles.

Multiple grins that underline sickening eyes. Eyes that look down on me from a pillar of black.

It laughs at me. It tells me that I’m the cause of all misfortune.
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I try to fight it, to burn it to cinders.

I try to yell at it, to deny what it tells me.

I try to run from it, so that I don’t have to face it.

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None of it works.

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It’s a part of me, that monster.

It’s the whispers that I hear, the errant thoughts that are given voice.

The truth, that I hate.

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I hate dreams.

I hate demons.

I hate weakness.

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So I don’t have dreams, I have nightmares.

I kill any demons that I can, and loathe those I can’t.

But, I can’t cast aside my weakness.

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The whispers know that, and remind me everyday. Every night.

They point out what I already know. Remind me of what I try to forget.

They laugh as I cry. They laugh as I fall.

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As I fall into the dirt. Again and again.

Again and again. Again and again.

Again and again. They laugh.

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They sound familiar. They sound foreign.

They are faces from my past. Faces of the village chief, his wife.

The rice farmer, the candy store owner, the miners.

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I can think about them clearly when I find myself alone.

Alone in that snowy place, bathed in moonlight.

And I get the feeling, there is a reason that I forgot.

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I know that one day I will be forced to remember.

Whatever sins that stain me, will become clear.

And I will never be able to see anything else.

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The day I listen to the whispers.

The day I see my sins.

The day that I remember at all—

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—Is the day that I will never come back.

The day that I will die.

And a monster will take my place.

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And monsters aren’t allowed to dream.