250531 0824
I was there, at school again, because my dad took me there to paint the walls with him, or something like that.
We were done, and I perched on the staircase. I practiced my singing, but my voice cracked.
I heard ugly laughter from above and behind.
So as usual, I was motivated to sing even more. But my voice won’t heed my call. It dimmed and dimmed away.
– Is this what my hallucinations look like?
I then challenged them to a game of hide-and-seek. Through telepathy, I assume. Like in my hallucinations, I never saw those faces.
At first, out of panic, I teleported myself on their ceiling, which they quickly spotted. But I immediately left, and turned that body into a puppet, breaking apart on the floor. “Bummer!” they said.
Anxiety. Can I even win the game that I had proposed?
That is when Lav told me, with her angelic, encouraging voice:
– Don’t worry. You will always win. You’re not there anyway.
And a kiss on the forehead, like a fairy godmother.
I opened my eyes to see the room that I’m in.
The exact scene I would see when I wake up for real later.
That said, if I really woke up there, what’s the fun in it?
I focused on my self in the room. I wiped clean my presence at my high school.
It’s something you can do. From the camera work to the plot, but most importantly, you must feel that you are not there. The world must feel it. You must not feel that you are there, not for a moment.
In fact, you can even wipe yourself clean without seeing your self anywhere else. Perfectly blank, like fate unravelling in a movie.
My magic, ink-black, quickly stained the schoolground. They tried to escape through the gate, still confidently, but as soon as they touched it, their arms fell off. Necrosis.
A bloodless poison. A deadly ivy. Vengeance. A director’s cut.
Were they students? Adults? They weren’t human. All they manifested in was that roaring laughter I can’t shake off, and the terror that I have always (notoriously) been a fan of. (Just a healthy dose.)
Does psychosis affect lucid dreaming? I honestly don’t know, and I haven’t bothered to read up on it, despite wanting to become a scientist. What’s the fun in a personal story riddled with others? We can read it on the side, like Loacker wafers during a cup of caffè macchiato.