The Rubinshteinic Survival of Noah's Ark Nightmare & Dream Directory
Updated: 7 days ago
Dream Directory
The Rubinshteinic Survival of Noah's Ark Nightmare
Perhaps philosophy is but a distraction from the trauma of life... However, you must keep on the path of wisdom. -- Ms. Intan Adams
The infinite series of my neurological transformations bring my soul into the dream realm deeply encompassed in the back of my mind.
This one dream was as clear to my senses as an espresso coffee shot. Pursuing me like an office-working Jason Vorhees, with the discipline of an unrelenting salaryman.
A day lost, a day wasted before, made me consumed by feelings of guilt and shame.
This one dream, however sought to redeem that one dysfunctional day, one of many dysfunctional days where I was fighting depression, amnesia and so many other psychological ailments...
Something within the Silent Hill mental fog felt significant. Perhaps, I'm just trying to make sense of the senseless, something I am trying to do ever since 2007... and maybe before that, too. In my desire to rectify the world I enjoy laying even such dreams before you, free of charge...
The recurring motif of school was often a very visible one throughout my dreams. It was an expression of suffocating. However, only a lesser ultimate soldier won't succeed enduring 13 years of pure mental distress. It was a motif of this one, too..
The dug-up bones of the past seem to resurface themselves! This time, it collided with something of a far-more doomsday nature: The inevitable end of the world.
A biblical flood, so I heard the voices of student gangs in that dream as a silent, self-disciplined and melancholic one-student army.
As the air crackled with a primal fear, a cacophony of panicked screams and hollow pronouncements emerged. I, however, didn't bat an eye, and remained as stoic like the serenity of graveyards.
Then, megaphones whined loudly with incompetent counsel of "helpful wisdom", as robed figures, their eyes burning with chaotic fanaticism, shrieked manipulative religious "prophecies" from rooftops. It was a carnival of despair, a grotesque parody of social harmony, and I, as always, was caught in the middle, silent, observant, and suffering per the paradigm of my secret plans.
"Reality" unfolded and twisted itself, rapidly changing before me in my dreamy mental dimension. I found myself in a laundromat-prison hybrid underground complex of spinning drums, rusted bars, and soapy aroma.
My mother, whom I acted as her secret guardsman, burdened me with a mountain of clothes, an impossible task in the face of impending doom for most. Yet, an easy task for a dead master's ultimate soldier..
The news of the flood echoed through the stale air from a melodramatic journalist on TV, as death knell against the rhythmic hum of the robotic army of washing machines I lead in loneliness.
Escape was a tempting thought, quickly resisted by loyalty to my vows, and the defeat of mental weakness.
Abandon the bipolar woman I vowed to protect? Nay. I refuse to despair and fail! Not now, not ever!
A cold, suffocating wave of white noise and screams defeated the industrial metropolis which cares not for my personal suffering, and in which I was told by late master to rectify for the greater good.
I felt nothing, yet the terror of the urban herd was immeasurable, a phantom sensation echoing through the void.
Then, silence. A desolate, oppressive silence for most, yet of little worth to me. The suffocating darkness of a world extinguished meant nothing to me.
And in general, my nightmares are often insignificant to me, and in one of them, I had the mental power to subvert the nightmare, and become the nightmarish antagonist myself..
I awoke in a cave, a bizarre sanctuary littered with the remnants of forsaken technology. Was it would-be, lone superhero's lair? The orange and green suit, an infantile mockery of truly-mature heroism, hinted at a desperate attempt at grandeur, to a world oblivious to such narcissism.
I soon realized I have "awaken" to a post-apocalyptic world, a landscape of broken promises and shattered dreams. My clothes, soaked and useless, clung to me in merciless cold. Survival meant anonymity, a shadow in the wastelands of a desolate planet.
Outside, the world cursed in watery graveyards of rotten villas and scrap-filled beaches.
Small units of an armed and intoxicated mercenary organization, guarded the beachfronts in hedonism, their presence a symbolic indication of deviated alternative frameworks being formed on the basis of a former anarchy.
Thirst gnawed at me, both a physical and mental ache, yet again, I resisted the urge to engage these henchmen, and risk the wonderful peace of lying low.
On the beach, a strange hand-made aircraft, a hybrid of kite and surfboard, remaind endured and unused. From it I deduced the existence of the vanished vigilante, its dried-up colors hallmarked its unsung adventures with its absent creator...
A map, detailing scattered islands, confirmed my the suspicions of my mysterious mind. I took the vehicle, a desperate gamble, and fled into the darkness of the sea.
Solitude, I reasoned, was my only refuge of sanity. Better to be ride alone than be affiliated with a faction that cares not for my immense loneliness.... Just for something like water.
What did this fevered vision teach me? That vulnerability is a death sentence in a world where humans have to cater to ruthless leaders... Specifically, the death sentence of my chosen destiny of world rectification..
To reveal your true self, to offer your thoughts freely, is to paint a target on your back. It is something I do, for the despair of others, allows me to form my own powerbase in spirit master's name.
In that dream, I could have rallied the panicked masses, offered my own brand of twisted wisdom. Yet, I chose silence, a self-imposed exile, even at the cost of abandoning those I could've have led.
Why? Because I only find solace in leading those I deem worthy of my leadership. May the rest of the world intoxicate itself in its own brain-rotten pursuits, while I rectify it from the dark, with all, all of my heart!
In the lawless wilds of this dream, and perhaps in the waking world, the lone wolf survives. To be part of an existing pack and bear a name, is a disgrace to the goal I have agreed to unfold in the world.
And when you are known, you are vulnerable.
If to be known, then be known not for luxury or ego, but for a cause truly worth living for, in your subjective eyes...
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