6:44 monday in the am

I awake and continue to search for answers which I feel I dreamt of tonight, yet I barely remember the context of those dreams. I let it slip away but the edge of the dream hangs on where I see an outer spiral, like the tower of Babel or a skyscraper. 

I continue to analyze myself instead of the subject because I know of my own subtle connections with the issues and do wonder if there is actually connection or if that I am stretching my truth. The idea in mind that I remain to note, even for weeks, occurs more now and has to do with my dreams. 

Of the reasons which I continue to use my medicine. The medicine of the gods that happens to be illegal to man in ironic fashion. Of my reasoning is to suppress the onslaught of dreams, though the madness still comes through in vivid detail and imagination. I enjoy the sensation of the substance, yet when in sobriety from this substance, my intentions for the herb morph into the medical without worrying over the sensation or mood that I prefer as well. 

In sobriety, as I have found during six-month stretches of legal probation and where I am paranoid enough about prison that I abandon my own sanity for the sake of my future. I always felt more punished in my sleep by these probationary rules than by any of the other rules or fines and the whole scenario feels unjust while I remain fighting my own battles each night. 

I recall visions so real and vivid that I have wondered of the truth with days or years of rest beyond waking. The dreams remain and occasionally I revisit them to examine in my memory. I wonder of the significance, if any. I ponder on the reasons or of even the shapes of the clouds or their colors. Recalling the guests and critiquing intentent. 

Yet, I continue on with my medicine in order to leave the veil in place. Though, lately I’ve been tempted to lift it, but in doing so, I’ll be tormented possibly by frightening experiences each night or not scary but thrilling or overwhelmingly interesting. The spread of emotions upon waking would range from sad to happy and scared, exalted, proud, or of any spectrum of fear, anxiety, joy, or elation. And people wonder why I’m a pothead. 

I wonder how they aren’t. I wonder what their dreams can be. In that do they often wake soaked in sweat, swaddled in fear and joy, with a bow of confusion placed on top to signify a gift. Yet is it a gift or a punishment? 

…If the punishment were the case, then why punish a small child? As these vivid dreams did not begin in adulthood, but continued on. The fact in which I don’t discuss is due to repression though now in my path, I am tempted to stop or slow to see the dreams re-emerge so that I may analyze for myself and with the hordes of new insight and intellect and possible wisdom that I’ve gained. 

This is all a side note and I will NOT be attempting this in this week because I have enough confusion and prefer to continue down the path of information collection and save the fast from my medicine for a time in which I have complete control over my surroundings and lifestyle and can then enjoy the freedom to embrace the dreams and to discover if there have been truths hiding there all along. 

As a final note, my dreams remain vivid, but when I’m not smoking — the dreams are not best described as vivid, but as and to the effect that life (itself) is vivid while the dream is the actual life. As if now, here and writing feels more like a dream. 

7:24am, monday, 12.4.17

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