There’s this place. It’s a high place. It’s not a mountain; not a hill. It’s just, a high place. Sometimes when I feel down, for whatever reason (be it random depression, good movie, book or game that came to an end), I go there. There are almost never anyone up there, and there’s this field where you can sit and watch the view. It takes about thirty minutes to go there from the city where I live. On a good day, sitting on that field, I can see the tall buildings in the city. As the sun sets, the light reflects in the windows of the tallest one; blinding me. It’s absolutely tranquil.
Through the years, the need for visiting this field has grown. I don’t feel unstable, yet I sometimes feel that reality and my dreams overlap. During my night adventures, I often have a problem telling dream and reality apart. When I was younger, the sleepwalking was just a “thing” I did. A thing that my parents and I had to get used to, and find ways of handling (Which they did. Not by planning, but simply by adapting to whatever method worked to get me to go back to bed without drama). Growing older, it became more troublesome, especially when I moved out of my parents house. Living alone while studying, there was no longer anyone to keep an eye on me and my nightly activities. The risk of crossing some line was always there. But as far as I know, it took many years until any lines were crossed. A few years back, the first line was crossed when I had a nightmare where my necklace was strangling me. To get out of this horrible situation, I ripped my necklace to pieces, spreading the pieces all over the bedroom. I also swallowed a piece of it, for some reason.
I like to call this the “line of violence”. It was the first time I had done any other activity other than talking, walking and opening the occasional door. On top of that, I had used violence, plus putting something in my mouth that I then swallowed. How can I know all this though, since I was sleepwalking? I have mentioned this in previous posts, and I usually describe my sleepwalking like being at the cinema. I see and remember everything, but I’m not in control (My subconscious me is, or Stranger, as I call him). The line of violence made us remove all objects in the bedroom that I could grab and throw, as a precaution. There were still other types of reoccurring incidents, however.
My most common adventure, which happens almost ę̦͚͉̥̟͆̌̀̈̀͝v̧̻̹͇̹͋̾̒̌̅͠ͅȩ̛̠̥̻̞̥̑̏̽̽̕r̛͔̭̜̻̲̲̾͐̀̋͝y̨̛̖͖̘̙̮͛̒̓́͝ night, and has been for the last ten years, is some sort of odd phobia. I sit up in my bed, and feel like there’s something in my throat, or that I can’t breathe. I then throw myself out of the bed, and run out of the room to drink water from the tap in the kitchen. In an attempt to stop myself from doing this, I now always keep a bottle of water next to my bed. I still have the incidents, but now I drink from the bottle instead, which makes the night slightly calmer.
Managing my nightmares has become easier lately. I write them all down, in great detail; as soon as I wake up. The idea is that the dreams that fit a certain pattern, will be included in a horror story that I’m working on.
The problems that are still unsolved, though. The first one is the fact that I may cross more lines. I crossed another one just a few weeks ago, when I left the bed, opened the balcony door and went out on the balcony. The reason? There were “bats” in the apartment, and I had to let them out. To do this, I opened the balcony window, and stood there until I woke up and came to my senses. What if I had decided that the apartment was suddenly on fire? Would I have jumped out the window to a certain death? The best way we have been able to solve this problem so far, has been to block the door with a large AC unit. So far I haven’t been able to move large objects while sleeping, and so far this has stopped me from entering the the balcony again. The second problem, is my grip of reality. By each year, I feel how my grip is getting looser and looser. When I was a kid, I would realise where and who I was rather quickly after I woke up. Even when waking up outside of my bed, I would understand the situation, shrug, and go back to bed. These days it’s getting harder and harder. After waking up outside of bed, in the middle of the night, I can sometimes stand in the dark for several minutes, just to get back my sense of reality. It’s hard to describe it accurately, but it feels like I’m not there, or that I’m still in a dream, trying to understand what’s going on.
Ą̡̦͔͖̖̋̏͐̑̉́s̘͓͖̯̯͕̑͐̐̓̌̿ ̲͉̹͖̰̅̈͋̈͐̊͜m̜̻̝̠̘͍͋̐̍̅́͝y̧̛͙̝̝̝̮̒͋̊͗́ ̹͕͇̹͓̖̋́̇̐͛̕ŝ͎̟͈͔̝́͌̑̚͜͠a̡͙͖̖̖̭̋̃̄̋͝͝n͙͈̻̳̭͙͛̂̑̆́̇i̡̹̙͕͙̞̎̈́̈́͗̿̕t̼͎̳͈̯̝͗͗͆͆͆͠y̛̛̮͓̗͍͕̤̏̈́̓͆ ̧͉̻̤̺͔̔̾̃̂̚͝s̨̨͔̬̙̣̾͛̿̂̒͊l̨̰̭̘̻̥͗̊̈́͂͌̚o̯̭͈̟͕͓̿͋̍̀͊͝w̢̢̮͉͕̯̌̽̓̀̄͠ļ̜̖̥͇͖̂̂́̀̂͝ẙ̨͈͇̤̻̊́͋͠͝ͅ ̝͚̰̪̠̋̍̔͛̽̿͜s̢͙͖̱̙̪̏̊̋̍̓̋l̢̝̞̭̰̪͌̑̓̈́͋̚î̥̪͇̺̣͉̊̃̇̋̔p̨̟̺͇̟̰̅͐͋́̇́s̨̨̪̗͙̩͂̊͊̇̈́̍ ̡̢͍̬̮̌̑̇͂͋͠ͅą̪̮̦̠̲̽͌̀̍͆̐w̳̜͖͕̼͔̉͂̅͌̈͠ă̢͕͕̫̭̯̅́̀͠͠y̡̩̤͎̰̘̏͒͐͂́͠, other parts of me become clearer. I’m able to work on a project more efficiently these days. I have always been hyperactive, so for someone on the outside it may not look like anything has changed, but I can notice the differences. I can work on a project for a long period of time, without the need for sleeping or eating. I’ve always been creative, and this is another part of me that has been going into overdrive lately. I have so many wonderful ideas that are constantly popping into my head. I write them down with as much detail as I can, and when I read what I wrote, several days later, it still sounds fantastic. I just hope I can realise some of these ideas before my mind is too corrupted to be of any more use. I feel that at some point, my mind will simply degrade to a state where I can’t think straight, and where the well of ideas has simply run dry.
Maybe, in ten years or so, I will be that crazy aunt in the family. The crazy cat lady who speaks nonsense and never gets anything done. She mostly sits around all day, counting stamps and arguing with people on the TV. I just hope that this is nothing more than a weird feeling. A side effect of my hyper active mind. That my sanity is here to stay, and instead, some changes to the way I think are simply misinterpreted. I hope I will have a happy ending. That I will live together with my partner, until we grow old and die of age. That at least some of my work will reach the outside of my notebooks, and that I will live a healthy and stable life.
I’m not really good at drawing these days, but I wanted to attempt to depict the feeling of a creative period where insanity grows in ones head. The drawing below is the result of that. It’s a dark itching feeling, like stress, that stay with you for a very long time. So far it has always gone away, and only come back during my most intense periods of work . However, these periods have become increasingly intense lately. In one sense, I’m grateful, as I can create beautiful things that I’m proud of; but on the other hand, I feel that it comes with a price. A price of a slowly deteriorating mind.
Ì̸̢̙͔̪́͌͝’̶̡̰̩̫̓̓̈͝m̴̬̼̪̫̒͊̀͝ ̸̤̯͚̘́̄̈̓n̵̡̢̛̥̈͊͐ͅo̸̱͔̘͔͆̽͂̚t̷̯̥͌͆̍͜͝ͅ ̶̙̘̰̜́̽͋͝ś̴̞͕̣̰͒̊͗u̶̢̼͍̭̓̉̊̏r̵̝̗͈̖̓̃͊̉ḛ̷͉̮͎̓̇̈́̆ ̸̨͙͓̻̓͌̓̿i̵̹̼̝͈͐̊̿̅f̸̟̮̻͇̃́̕͝ ̶̣͕̬͈͑̈́̒̈t̶̡̨̫̘͑̍́̾ḥ̴̡̻͉́̈̊͗į̵̣͇͎͗͋͆̚s̷̰̟̹̺̔̐̒͝ ̸̱̠̻̃͗̀̇ͅi̵̲̜̗̞͛̊̽͝s̷̤̺̘̭͆̓͋̑ ̴̲̳̦̬͑̊͆́r̶̮͓̬͍͐̇̀̈́ę̷̗̫̔̓̀͝ͅǎ̴̢̧̩̥̀̎͘l̶͎͚̬̱̐͂̕͝i̶̻̰̣͐̒͊́͜t̴̡̢̼̥̆̅͛͠y̴̯̪̞̞͛͊͛̎
