I was somehow in charge of a magic stone that could grant unlimited wishes as long as you held it. It wasn’t really just a stone either. There was a whole story of its origin being some monster’s brother’s cousin’s former roommates’ heart or something but I forget the details. All I remember now was that it looked like a brown pebble and had some grey markings across it
I told you I was freaky, baby. Last night was a relative cornucopia of freaky images in my head box. First I dreamt I was protecting a baby again (shut up, biological clock) only this time, I was on a beach and had to fight a giant octopus so we could sail our makeshift raft to safety.
It was like Jurassic Park, but with monkeys, and I dangled at the top of a giant tree, more than a hundred feet from the grassy fields of earth, desperately holding on and trying to help a monkey that had been bundled in plastic wrap and tied to the trunk. He was screeching and crying. I, myself was terrified of falling or of my pursuers finding me and pounding the living shit out of me.
I was 6 or 7 when I knew the only thing that gave me blissful, tummy fluttering excitement was making stories. I loved when the teacher said we were going to write a story in class, because I imagined robots fighting, thieves and ninjas sneaking, heroes flying and me jumping around in it all, a…
I think the most important thing I’ve learned is that it’s okay not to fall into a category. I used to spend too much time writing to fit into a mold and I was always unhappy with the end result. So I suppose I learned the joys of freedom. Now that I write what I want, how I want, I’m much happier.
It is strange to me how a lot of my dreams, that I remember, are reworkings of movies or TV show plots. Has my imagination become so dulled?