I dreamed of it again.
Every once and awhile, I am reminded of the swirling darkness and the pool of souls we float in call the physical plane. I’ll see it, an outside being, an interloper. In my dreams, I can feel the thing staring right through me, a judgement. Upon waking, I can feel those eyes still on me, and I have difficulty determining where I am in dream, or where I am awake. Am I awake? Now, I am. But many hours ago I wasn’t so sure.
Night blurred together into morning. I could feel it standing in my room still, I know its there, and I know that it’ll be waiting for me when I return home. What is this thing? A reminder that humans are little sacks of bloated meat- living, fucking, farting, and dying.
I can barely recall what it looked like. It’s appeared to me before, you know. It took the form of an ebony man, emaciated with cruel eyes. I could feel the malice, I could feel a terrifying awe at the yawning abyss that I was staring into. I can feel it when I sleep, I can feel it watching me. Gripping my dream now, clutching at fast flowing sand. I can’t remember. I can’t remember the form it took last night, but I can feel what it was, and my mind fills in the rest with a form I can comprehend.
I keep coming back to the ebony man. Stern and unyielding. I have had other dreams, too. Ones of death and corruption. Blood. I would go back to the darkest of times in my life in these dreams, and I would be front and center when people would die. Ever feel pain in a dream? I do all the time. Pain that actually reflects to the injury I receive in the dream.
I dreamed of men and women throwing themselves upon giant saw blades in a lonely logging forest when the season of suicide was ripe. I could feel their pain as they died. I saw myself as one of them, watching myself scream out towards them to stop, but it was too late before i could change my mind’s mind. I would be shredded by the circular saw blades, the frustration of not being able to out dodge them and the pain of being sliced to shreds.
I felt pain last night as well. I don’t remember what it was from, but I knew that IT had something to do with it. I am a Shaman. I am immature, and impure. I believe it may be the path I must walk, and I fear for the corruption I have allowed into myself. I have always heard of Shaman being mental warriors, strong of will and wise. Pure, untouched, exuding wisdom. I believe that I am a twisted Shaman, corrupted by my own hate and anger, my fetishes. Masturbation, copulation, over-indulgence, intoxicants, lies, anger, anger, anger.
My still waters are deep and dark. I am not evil. I am not a bad person. I am not a bad ass. What I am is corrupted. I believe that this corruption allows me to exist in a place where I have a unique position where I can out flank others on the perspectives of humanity, life, and death. I will never be a villain, but it is ignorant of me to think that my struggles haven’t changed me.
I am corrupted. Tainted.
Something, I fear, that I will have to learn to accept. It visits me more than I’d like. I know it’s there. I know it. But there is nothing I can do against it. Perhaps because I don’t want to. This corruption I allowed into myself might have allowed other things to tag along with it.
I can feel its malice. And sometimes, I can understand it. I can understand the ways of a good man, and I can understand the ways of a bad man. I am selfish. I also wish this was a short story, or a creative narrative. But it’s not. No, it is not.