(no subject)

[joysweeper]

I spend a lot of time when I'm not near the computer thinking about what I'd like to be typing if I was.

Sunday night, for instance, I couldn't sleep at all.  I was thinking about something passive-aggressive to my insomnia.  Monday a teacher said that I was pretty good at paraphrasing, so I was thinking about ways to brag about that.  Naturally the phrasing I came up with for both of those has totally vanished, and I'm not up for finding it again.

Tuesday, though, I was mostly thinking about the five-page essay in Least Favorite Class.  I typed three.  Oops.

But damn it, I discovered theursulav  journal and was entranced.  Grr. 

 

I dreamed about a world where cities had to have their whole populations evacuated because of Pyramid Head, or someone who looked just like him.  No knife, though.  I think he had some kind of earthquake/controlling rubble power.  And years ago, I was second-oldest sibling with three brothers.  We were on the run and had to do this jumping-clinging puzzle on islands above water to get to the skytrain before it took off.  I was bad at it and fell in, and they kept shouting that there was no time, and I made it eventually, and we clung to the bracing underneath the skytrain.  And then it rose up into the air and the second-youngest brother lost his grip and fell, and we all screamed and knew we’d never see him again.  Then cut to years later when cities were evacuating ahead of him, and my brothers and I were young adults living in this little town with little cottages watching the news and knowing who it was, and feeling guilty and knowing it could have happened to us.  Then my brothers joined a military force to stall Pyramid Head even though everyone knew it was suicide.  But he didn’t kill their group, in the water and the rubble, and they were able to contain him in a giant box and he turned back into a man.  I saw him like that, through something like the glass thing in police stations.  He had the saddest smile.  He could talk, and he told us not to ever let him out, but no one could understand his explanations of what had happened.  A lot of the dream was about asking and both of us being frustrated.  So I made a diorama, of all things, outlining what had happened as far as I knew, the running, the jumping-clinging puzzle, the skytrain.  He said he’d been so scared until it had happened.  Told me again to never, ever let him out.  Said it liked all the terrible things you could do to something with two legs.  I made another diorama of the military force with our brothers in it, looking for him in the ruins of this very city, asking why he’d stopped, and he picked up the little figures that represented our brothers – somehow I’d passed it into the box – and asked why I’d only modeled two of his friends.  There had been more.