No more dreams

This text is based on the following youtube movie:

The thought was tearing a hole in his soul. It was such a pain to bear. Despair was the only thing that he felt, well, and – a sense of doom. It was pitiful, that was the feeling the he projected on the others – pity. There are two kinds of pity and that which he received was not of the gentle kind. People pitied him only because they didn’t want to become like him.

What was so deeply emotional that it touched his very soul? Surly it’s something grand, something to be remembered.

In the last 24 hours he had to endure indignities. He had to drink a cup full of finger nails. He was climbing stairs that had no end. His home was destroyed before his very eyes. He saw himself committing atrocities. He also had to live, over and over, through him choosing which of his friends to save and see the rest of them die before his eyes. Other times he sat and watched helplessly how he alone killed one by one his closest people because of trivial argues.

Why do you think he had received such a punishment? Was Hell that which he was enduring?


This was his own mind. His own perverted mind had locked itself into a loop of nightmares.

Where it had all begun?

Some time ago he sat down and wrote the story of his life. It took months, it took constant rewrites, scrapping things, thinking of new ideas, drawing upon his own experience.

Finally it was finished. All his pain, all his soul was in there. So he went to a publisher. The man who greeted him was about his age, looked rather extravagant, wearing a white wig and a brown fedora. He sat before his computer with an empty expression. They exchanged brief pleasantries and then he took the draft to review it. He started reading and remained with an unimpressed look on his face. From to time he scratched out somethings he thought were stupid and then gave our hero a very criticizing and sarcastic look. It was a big work, so the publisher sent our poor hero away with a rather rude gesture.

At home our young hero went to sleep and for the first time in his life he slept soundly, little did he knew that it would also be his last. He dreamed of a brighter future…

The next day he returned and his publisher had a grim smile on his face. Once he opened the textbook where the text was written he started to tear pages and shred them into small pieces. Our hero was horrified. The editor continued his rampage through the poor book, tearing pages, making them into paper balls, throwing the around, even eating some of the. His eyes were crazy, his deeds were evil, he destroyed the draft. Our hero left, hardly containing his tears.

Once home, he went to the balcony. He looked down, it seemed enough. He climbed the parapet, looked down for a short second and jumped, he knew he shouldn’t linger, that the height could quickly scare him.

There was a loud thump.

Life does screw everyone, so he lived through that, never to walk or move otherwise. Only his mind was intact, but not for long. The nightmares started, the pitting began and his mind slipped away, leaving not a person but a gallery of horror, permanently inscribed on his face. He could not even wish for death…

“Don’t trust in dreams.” where his last words, before he descended into complete madness.

He should have know better, not to rely solely on them.


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