Dream a Dream of Nightmares
The light cast by the moon dissolved itself into faint ripples which coalesced in rhythmic harmony across the dark pool laying just within view of an inhabited room amidst vacant shadowed brethren. The sole consciousness within a mile of that listless pool was one, Gregory Horst. A romantic fellow, whose life had become shrouded in doubt, with paranoia ever present, sulking its way into his fettered consciousness, plaguing his once bright ambition, mutating it into sorrowed monotony. This night like many, had reserved Gregory’s hours of blissful sleep for purposes much less restful. His battered form, once filled with glowing warmth, had been transformed into a hollowed husk. What did remain from his once-lustreous personage, had been marred and scarred and brought to wrinkles.
How many hours had he been awake since his last brief sleep? Had it been a day or two, or had he merely been up for a few hours? Time, a once cherished friend, had become a ghastly spectre haunting his every step. Days became meaningless, their individuality eclipsed and their forms smeared by the incessant fugue which had become Gregory’s life. Waking had begun to blend with dreaming, and realization was melding with imagination. All was false, and all was untrue, and nothing, not even reality, could break through. Gregory was lost in a labrynth of his mind, with no cord behind him to lead him out, and a dark evil lying just outside of sight.
It had not always been like this, for Gregory had once been empassioned by youth. As a young man, he had strove for greatness, experience, and truth. Mentors lay all about Gregory’s formative years. His guides had been man and woman alike. Their teachings had been his headlights. Their stories had fueled his drive. Help was always within reach when he needed it most, and there always were people who could offer great insights into his life. But it came to pass, just as all things do, that soon his problems, like him, grew up and took on lifestyles of their own. These adult problems were not so clear, they did not have identifiable sources, they seemed to stem from everything and nothing all at once. Like roots in search of sustenance, they had started to creep. These roots of doubt and worry had thrust themselves into all aspects of Gregory’s life.
The blight had started infecting him long before he noticed. It had been a gradual change at first, but it kept growing. He hadn’t been aware of the mutations he was adopting or the awful effects which had begun to develop. That is, until they had festered in his mind to point of rot and ruin. He suddenly was forced to face up all these internal demons in all their terrible forms. At first, the troubles scared him, not knowing what was wrong. Was he going mad, or was it some sort of sickness he had borne? Next, came denial, trying to ignore what it was that he was he was experiencing, he began to turn to vice as comfort. His cupboards, once filled with book, began to be filled with rye.
The drinking helped at first. It allowed him to forget those very-same reasons that led him to the drink. But soon the demons grew stronger, their tolerance to alcohol was getting stronger and with it, so too did their voices. They no longer disappeared alongside his sobriety, muted by the bitter wash of booze. No, now instead they began to nag him as drunkards do. They yelled and slurred and threatened him, they abused and cursed his name, they staged plays of horror with his thoughts and threw him all the blame. Surely, these demons could not be his, for how could one who so recently filled with vigour and mirth, suddenly be condemned to this circus of nightmares, this parade of disgust?
This riot of emotions began to take its toll, and Gregory began to fall deeper and deeper into the hole. The drinking did not cease, rather it continued to grow, but drinking was not enough anymore, the rules of the game had changed. Alcohol alone could not lead him out of shame, so Gregory began to hunt for new solutions to his issues. He needed cell keepers to guard the doors to his insipid thoughts inside, he needed these demons locked up and forgotten for all time. These guards, for Gregory, came in the form of substances differing in type: powders, pills, herbs, and syrops became his new found light.
From morning at the break of dawn until the Sun slid beneath the mountains, Gregory would consume all manners of substance. Uppers in the morning, prescription drugs of zest - Some of these were rightly his, the rest had been bought hush-hush. Following the uppers, usually around mid-day, opiates became his chosen friends for play. They calmed his nerves, and dulled his aches, and made him numb to thought, and he would drift slowly out of dazes, just to go scrambling back. Come dinner time, with need for food, he’d spark his apetite. Fresh rolled joints and sticky hash, all to his stomachs delight. As the cannabis subsided, Gregory would feel himself returning. A shudder would shake throughout him, and so he’d finish off his daily routine with twice the recommended dose of sleeping pills.
And so it went, that Gregory’s life became a Ballet du Drogues, and with it his life slowly began to become ever-more stretched and tattered. But by now, his solutions had become problems in-and-of themselves, and none of the initial problems had ceased to dishearten his hopes. Gregory had become addicted to running away from strife, his early years had brimmed with hope, but not his adult life. He could not disconnect himself from the problems strewn all about. He knew not what pieces to pickup first, and instead was housed in doubt. What could he do to fix himself? Where could he turn for aide? He had lost most of his old dear friends to this awful plague. And as far as his family was concerned, they knew nothing of his trouble, for he gone to such great lengths to mask his entire struggle.
So all alone, with fears galore, and despair replacing all, Gregory sat alone this night on his window sill. Staring out at the darkened mass which housed the human race, wondering if others alive had ever been in his current state. What brought them to this darkness vast, and what allowed them to escape? Did they struggle as he was struggling, or did they somehow unearth a secret which allowed them to find their way? How did they manage to come up against their inner fears and foes, and did it leave them broken, or did it inspire their hope? All these questions raced in and out of Gregory’s mind, turning up a dust storm of panic, worry, and whine.
Why was he chosen for this life, what had he done wrong? Was it merely his environment, was it society that had had him burned? Did they preach falsehoods, and twist the true life path - the path towards enlightenment, the path towards the truth? Or was it merely his own devices that had crippled him out of youth? These answers may be out there, but as Gregory can say - just because they are out there, doesn’t mean they will come your way. For all of us who have had similar paths, we may yet find a way. A way to rid ourselves of these horrid thoughts, fears and doubts, and thus cease to ruminate. But, alas, until such time has come, if should come to pass, we will continue to struggle in our darkness, alone and lost in fog, all-the-while desparately searching for the once-lost spark that empassioned our lives.
THE END