UNFAMILIAR DREAMS
Journal Entry
THOUGHTS™
09–21–2022
︎ Writer: Stew Caldo
I fucking hate being sick. I hate allergies.
I'm sorry I keep complaining over and over, I'm doing the best I can.
This week has been tough, and I recognize that I need to be patient with myself.
I hate [REDACTED]. And myself for being a fucking idiot. [REDACTED] is mad that I l [REDACTED]. I'm pretty sure nobody gives a fuck about downtown. Except me.
I just want to finish this project. I want to finish the Galerie. The way I saw it and intended it. I don't want it to be derailed. Same with Thoughts™ and Ideas®. I'm enjoying those projects, and don't feel pressure necessarily, but when problems get in my way it feels like my anger bubbles up uncontrollably. I'm just so excited to be moving forward, it kills me that someone would just aimlessly stand in my way.
I had a dream last night.
I think I was experimenting with a team looking into alternate timelines or time travel maybe? I woke up in a 1975 Buick Skylark. It was that classic golden brown color, with the cream leather seats. The backseat had a sarape blanket laid across it. It smelled of black and milds. I can assume now that we were in the outskirts of houston, maybe Sugarland or Pearland. The car is parked in the driveway of a classic 3-story suburban home. Nothing other than the car indicates the time period that I'm in. I get up and instinctively go towards the house, and see that the front door is cracked open. I can hear noise coming from inside, at a static monotone volume. A TV.
I walk in, and can instantly tell we're in the late 80's. Possibly early 90's. Tile entryway lies beneath my feet, but the rest of the house is covered in cheap carpeting. All the colors are bland. Everything is a mix of beige, brown, and some hints of maroon here and there. We have to be in the early 90's. It reminds me of my Grandpa's house. Just the drabness of it.
A staircase with wooden banisters leads up to the second and third floors, and I begin making my way up. Following the sound of the television, I peek over into the second floor and see a living room (or game room depending on the decade). A man sits on the sofa, facing away from me. There may have been a glass of some apéritif sitting on the side table next to him. Whiskey I think.
I decide to announce myself in an exaggerated manner, walking into the den and plopping myself down next to him on the couch, and for some odd reason palm his shaved head in my hands. In a loving manner though, the way you might do with a friend. Although he doesn't know me, he isn't threatened of confused by my appearance. I tell him I think that I'm here to tell him something. That I woke up in the Buick out front. He seems to understand that I may be from another timeline without me telling him. As we're getting to the bottom of this, the television and lights shut off, and the man in front of me disappears. I'm all alone on the couch, in this late 80's home that is not mine. I hear the sound of a car approaching the driveway and peek out the window to see another Buick Skylark pulling into the driveway. Only this one was newer. Maybe a 90's model.
I see a larger, bald headed man stepping out of the vehicle. It seems to be the same man I was just with, only overweight and older. He has a loss of life in his eyes. I can feel by each trudging step he makes that life hasn't summed up to his interpretation or dreams. He waddles over to the door with his briefcase, steps into the alcove, and turns the lock. I feel myself getting nervous now. Before, I was much more confident about entering this foreign home, but now, I'm in it. Trapped. Waiting for someone I do not know. Even though I didn't know the man before, this man is much different. I can feel that this is not how things were intended to go.
He walks in and begins up the steps, and I (now on the third floor) shout down to him "Uhhh, hey". Immediately, I can see that his reaction will be much different than his past self. I begin stuttering on about how I'm not sure how I got here and how I'm just leaving and I don't want to hurt him. But before I can get another word out, he has a knife from the kitchen and is barreling up the stairs. His speed shocks me given his roundness and sheer mass. Somehow, as he begins to cross from the second to third stairwell, I'm able to jump from where I'm standing and roll down the first / second floor stairs. I end up on that alcove again, sitting on the cold tile. I quickly push out the front door and begin running. Only I'm not running like in real life, it's almost like a video game character runs. Stiff and at a set speed. My vision doesn't bob up and down like it normally would when running, giving it that video game appearance. This terrifies me. I'm not running how I should be able to. I hear the man yelling behind me, as he chases me out of the house. I realize that this is more than just me "breaking in" to his home. He remembers me. I did something to him.
He continues to chase me up the street until my dream ends.