Tag Archives: darkness

Dreams, Part 2: Darker than Dark


He sits upon a swinging bench, a son of dreams too far to reach. He confesses dreams of purest heart and haunting fears that tie him to the deepest dark.

“I am scared.”

Long-time friends of two souls sit together under cover of darkness and beer-bottled coals. Embers spark of light and dark dreams of yesterday and tomorrow. On furlough are the daytime discretions of accepted conversation and sociable aspiration.

“I think I am scared of my own success.”

A dark veil hangs in the air at this dark hour. The air is cool and the grass is wet from a morning shower. No clouds in sky, but puffs of cotton balls hang and drift in the air.

“Who isn’t? Everyone has those fears. If we didn’t, we’d all be celebrated.”

His friend’s words give him guidance. In the air, sparkles of light dance from a neighbor’s yard. For a moment, the talisman wards off the evil spirits that hide and follow in his shadow, and they dissolve into the night and allow for new sight.


The cold reprieve of beer and cool night air give fair thought to what is near. Words of wisdom does his friend speak, but are there ears of wisdom present for them to meet? This he asks himself.

Silence comes in on a breeze and the two souls are quiet among the waving dark leaves of day-bright floras around. The silence spreads and the two souls become separated by the sound. To find his way back, he who sits in the swinging bench, a son of dreams to far to reach, crawls back on the ground, seeking more of what his friend has to teach.

The Alchemist is Named


Third-Party Observer

There is a thermostat-controlled heater in my bedroom that I use to regulate the room’s temperature independently from the apartment furnace, so I can have the room as cool or warm as I like. It typically runs for about five minutes or less when I first turn it on for the night. My first dream falls within this time frame.

A woman is telling another woman all about her socioeconomic success gained by her marriage to her husband. This all takes place in a horse-drawn carriage somewhere, presumably Britain because of the accents, and the era must be mid to late 1800s given the attire and vocabulary.

My view is from the carriage driver seat, however I am not driving, someone else is. In their respective seats, the interviewer has her back to me (facing rearward), while the interviewee has her face visible to me (facing forward).

Time of day is late morning to mid afternoon, sunny with only a few summer clouds.

Everything is normal: animals are going on about their business like they should be; carriage behavior is as expected in real life; everything is as expected as though it were happening in the lower physical world (as described by Robert Bosnak in Tracks in the Wilderness of Dreaming).

All of this “normalcy” combined with the fact that I am a third-party observer should have tipped me off, but I was oblivious to it all at first, until it was too late.

The interviewer turned in her seat and faced me. Her voice and questions continued as though tape recorded and separate from her actions; the proud woman answering questions never flinched nor took notice to any queer behavior. All other things, as well, go on normally without incident. She makes eye contact. Despite my eye-level being that of a stone on the driver’s bench, she faces me and makes eye contact. Moreover, her face is pale white, her gender becomes nondescript, scar tissue resembling some symbols and a dead language litter the face, her eyes are completely white, and her bonnet serves as hood over her head and frames her face.

I am immediately terrified. I am familiar not with the physical of this entity, but the “psychic signature.” It looks like a demon, it behaves like a demon, and I pretty much accept it as a demon. It is in all of my nightmares, and it always seems genderless, or at least taking whichever/whatever persona it wishes. What I do in my dream equates to a physical leap backward in response to fear and surprise. Even though I am, for all intents and purposes, invisible to the dream occupants/participants, I still occupy a space. And, to avoid physical contact, or to create space in response to a flight or fight reaction, I “jump back.” It is an overwhelming fear that I feel. I literally feel everything good and warm, every bit of courage and strength, drain right out of me in the face of It.

It is happy to see me, the time has been so long since we last met. It is smiling at me, entertained and enjoying our “social gathering.”

I feel, for Dream Log sake, that I should refer to it by something other than “it,” or its description, or its title [of demon]. Perhaps, my Jungian Shadow? I will use the pseudonym, the alchemist. It seems both crude/primitive and intertwined with its natural environment (the dreamscape). I have both respect and fear for this entity, the latter being more prevailing than the former. So, back to the eye contact.

Robert Bosnac writes about thinking and feeling the same thoughts and feelings of an other in the dream by taking, as I call it, residence in the other’s physical shape or body. In my personal notes I commented on this, and I will repeat it here for reader’s sake.


Tom B. lent me Tracks in the Wilderness of Dreaming by Robert Bosnak.

Robert Bosnak comments that we should try to “transit” (transition into another) to help us understand [other’s perspective in] our dreams. He explains “pathways” and helpful practices. But, I need only to touch or make eye contact to feel an other’s thoughts or emotions. This ability is more pronounced in dream and less pronounced in wake.

At a young age, before puberty, I found I could enter objects, bodies, and even other people’s dreams. When my Korean grandmother learned I had entered my sister’s dream, she cautioned me, as I may find others, less honorable others, who can do the same or be very interested in my talents. A month or two later, I entered a body and found a very sinister cohabitant inside. It scared my deeply. I then recalled, upon awakening, persons who seem to follow me night after night. They were not of the same physical description, but of the same thoughts, emotions, and intentions. I have not entered another body since, and Robert Bosnak recommends it. I wonder if he knows of any experiences similar to mine.

Again, back to the eye contact.

The alchemist and I are in eye contact. As a result, I have a very profound connection with it. It is sinister – pure evil. It is not a mockery of my good intentions, but a pure, unadulterated, uninhibited, concentrated form of all emotions and all distinguishes of evil – a singularity in time, space, and emotion. It desires only my suffering and descent into an eternally self-destructive and excruciatingly painful torture of self-combustion, burning my self for all eternity, and for the alchemist’s pleasure, as well.

The Shoshone Indians believed that self-immolation was spiritually cleansing. Is this applicable for me?

The alchemist is always very surprisingly aware. It seems very much a sentient being unto itself.

Telepathically, as is always our conversations, the alchemist challenges me. “Put this in your dream log, [expletive].” I use the term “expletive” only because I do not recall the exact curse word. In fact, as I type this, I question the precise words expressed to me. It crosses my mind that perhaps the alchemist spoke in another language and that my mind automatically translated it. I say this because the expletive was not in any modern language I recognize, and it has a relative comparison to the English word “motherfucker.” Nonetheless, I do recall the alchemist challenging me to record the encounter in my Dream Log. And, yes, the words “dream log” were expressly used by the alchemist.

I open my eyes. After I had leaped backward, I could not do anything else. Although I can typically control everything in a dream, the alchemist often prevents me. My only recourse, versus staying in the dream, was to break the connection by opening my eyes.

The thermostat-controlled heater in my room which typically operates for five minutes or less is still running. The image of the alchemist’s riddled face and white eyes linger upon my retinas like its words upon my ears, a bell struck once who’s sound lingers in the ears beyond its ring.

I take solace of being back in my bed, back in the lower physical world and no longer in the middle imagery world (again, as described by Robert Bosnac in Tracks in the Wilderness of Dreams), and no longer in a place where the alchemist can reach me. In the immediate seconds when dream world fades to the wake world, the alchemist feels my relief and sees an image of my bedroom through my eyes. I know it because I feel it in the alchemist. And then, the alchemist feels a playful banter with my escape, like a cat playing with a mouse before it kills the morsel. The alchemist knows I escaped back to the wake world by opening my eyes. The alchemist expresses all of this as it watches my dream persona fade from the dream world. Smiling as though it is only a matter of time because I have not fully escaped, and enjoying the interactions we have in the mean time.

The alchemist and I have battled (metaphorically) on many occasions.

I keep my eyes open until the heater shuts off, which is a few minutes later. I take a few more minutes to calm my self a bit more, letting the adrenaline fade from my blood flow and allowing my calmed heart rate to have a few minutes rest.

A learned response not to show fear or panic, my breathing does not always increase despite the adrenaline and increased heart rate in response to a flight or fight stimulus. For this dream, my breathing never changed except when I calmed my self with a few deep, controlled breaths.

I shut my eyes, tired and ready to return to sleeping before I have to wake for work.

Bam! Like a capacitor discharging its last voltages all at once, the alchemist has connected with me as soon as I shut my eyes. Again, pale face, white eyes, the smile. The foreign letters on its face have changed. However, this time, I take more notice of the symbol on its forehead. The alchemist seems naked with these characters showing on its face. It is some kind of symbol, unknown to me, within a circle on the alchemists forehead. I am not confident I would be able to identify this symbol if shown to me.

The alchemist has the same cocky smile, and continues to dare me to enter this dream in my Dream Log. However, these seem to be more like a resonant memory that the alchemist has used, as though to trigger my own memory to complete the imagery and emotion, much like sending an electronic compressed message. The real impression the alchemist wanted to send was the fact that it could reconnect with me at its choice, spanning worlds (dream world and wake world) and time (from the 1800s to present). That it can do so even at the moment I shut my eyes, even before I entered the dream world. The alchemist seems proud, and wishes to show off, more so now than before, since it has an audience, the Dream Log and its readers.

That is it. There is nothing more. It was nothing more than a flash, and then it was gone.

I wonder if it is a mistake keeping a Dream Log. I feared something like this might happen. I had only thought there would be more time before the alchemist learned of my activity.

To Make Me Happy

When ever you are near, I want to tear your skin off. I want to take a small knife, cut tiny slits in your arm or chest, and peel off long strips of your skin by pulling it off with a pair of pliers. I want it to hurt. I want it to be agonizingly painful for you. I want you to be in so much excruciating pain that you pass out from watching me pull your skin off, so I can slap you back to consciousness. I hear the skin peels off like Velcro.

I want to take a long pin, like a sewing needle, and gently push one… two… under your nails. I will be very careful and push them in very slowly because I do not want to hurt you too badly. I will begin with your toenails, first, then do your fingernails. The pins are long enough that after I have inserted them into your fingers that they will bounce and vibrate when I touch them with a tuning fork. You will be my symphony and I will be your conductor. Together, we will play great classical music, the music that makes humans… human.

If you refuse me, struggle against me, annoy me, or answer wrongly a question I ask about you and me, I will snap a finger. And, I will snap a finger each time. If you are so dumb or defiant that you cause me to run out of fingers, I will break your ribs. I will rest a ball-peen hammer on your rib and strike it with a rubber mallet. Pay attention, be nice, and answer my questions rightly.

For your ears, I have a special pair of headphones for you. They seal around your ears and pressurize salt water into your ear canals. When it begins to bother you, I will stop and bleed off the pressure. And then, I will do it, again, making it hurt just a little more each time until your eardrums burst.

I will have you for a while, so I have to figure out something for you to eat. I will give you all of your favorite dishes. And the next day, I will feed you ipecac. All of your consecutive meals for the day will consist of what you regurgitate. On even days, we will dine graciously on your favorite dishes. On odd days, you will suffer on your gluttonous selfishness.

Using whatever tools I can find in the garage, I will remove each of your teeth. I have never done this before, so I will have to experiment with what tools and methods are most effective—for your torture.

I may want to take a day or two off and enjoy some time away; every couple does, Honey. On those days, you can rest, too. It would be pretty selfish of me to expect you to work. So, for entertainment, I have these really tiny bugs that burrow under your skin, reproduce by the hundreds, and, when the eggs hatch, the babies in-turn burrow and breed, too. When they burrow in your skin, their bodies irritate your skin. It causes itching so terrible and so incessant you will tear own skin off to make it stop. The bugs are in the socks I just put on your feet, Sweetie.

Since every couple has sex, I guess we will, too. I can rub your genitals with pulverized glass that I have taken the painstaking time to crush, recrush, and recrush. I love you, Baby.

When I am finished with you, I want to sew all of your orifices shut. I would hate to let your corrupted bodily fluids infect the rest of us or the world. No silly, you will still be alive to know that I have sealed you in your own body. You’re so funny.

Death will come to you, and you will know him. But, death will come to you only after you have lived through your greatest joy, first, because you said you would do anything to make me happy.



How do we know shadows? Do we even bother to acknowledge shadows, except for when sweating under the sun? Do we know our own shadow? Do we see another part of our self in shadow? Is a shadow more than the absence of light cast by an object? Is it another vessel?

In the deep absence of space, light is vacuous, except for our remembrance of light’s decorum: how it warmed our faces, how it grew our plants, after-rain rainbows, sun dogs, and the luminous moon. With pin-lights millions and billions of generations away, distant suns with their invisible solar systems are the only mementos of light out here in black limbo. Here, amidst nothing, we are truly alone; far away enough to be out of earshot, out of eyesight, and out of the way. Alone in the light pales in comparison to the loneliness one feels in the dark.

Forces occur in pairs of equal magnitudes and opposite directions. To paraphrase Isaac Newton’s third law of physics: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction in another body.

Another body, I think with my other self, lost in backward imagination and anomalous curiosity of such a common and forgetful thing as a shadow. Aren’t we crazy?

My shadow is my counterbalance. Like a fulcrum, the souls of my feet meet where my body and shadow have grown upward for year after year, day after day. For all of my conscious, my unconscious also resides within me. For all my fears, insanities, and carnage, my peaceful side – my lightful side – also resides within me. Through our fulcrum, our umbilical cord, we maintain our link, both physical and metaphysical. Like a bottle on its side, the oil and water mixes and commingles with the agitation of turbulent waters. Never completely one, yet never completely apart. Symbiotic specters coexisting in the same place; matter and antimatter.

Shadow. It provides cool respite from the summer heat burning above. Yet, within its sanctuary, I see the world a little differently despite any real change in anything around me. The only difference: the shade.

I can sit alone in the light, be it inside or outside, and it is not the same as sitting alone in the dark. There is a “blanket” feeling in darkness, like it cloaks me. Perhaps you feel it in the light just as a female friend of my mine so does. She thinks it odd and paranormal – freaky and bizarre, really – that I prefer to sit in the dark than light. In the evening, after everyone has turned in and are either sleeping or watching late-night infomercials, I can be found outside, basking and enjoying the cloak of darkness that veils us each moonrise. Like a soft, warm, comforting baby’s blanket, I can be (in life) in darkness unlike in the light.

Fluorescent lights, incandescents, halogens, LEDs, high-pressure sodium-vapor lamps – we live in a world of light, casting out and exiling the age-old terrorist we have both feared and revered for all of mankind’s existence: darkness. Instead of finding ways to harmoniously exist in the night, we disrupt its serenity and sovereignty by harnessing an artificial recreation of day’s light: headlights, street lamps, flashlights, nightlights, tabletop lamps. It is all blasphemous in the aphotic sacellum, the co-sanctum to our illuminated temple. Within this artificially lit world, we can not see the stars anymore. No more are the speckled, sprinkled, sparkling beauties of the night, the darkness.

Shadow Friends, a poem by Artificer:

Out of place and out of rhyme,
I see the world through different eyes.
Dreams to live in days of old,
I was not born for the modern times.

Through colored pains of stained-glass work,
abusive memories in the shadows lurk.
Trust betrayed and hate-love wars,
my battles within have made me a jerk.

I don’t cry. I don’t call.
Alone, I quietly wander my own dark halls.
“Don’t ask. Don’t tell,” is how I live.
Deep inside, I am still a child – scared and small.

I slipped through life from young to old
without causing a ripple, but mine own.
Who will miss me, but my shadow friends?
But, you know, now, because you were told.

Too dark, too cold to invite you in.
Stay outside, but please be my friend.
With no one to play with, it is only me.
My loneliness seems to have no end.

Saviors had come a couple of times.
I thought they were, but they had lied.
Or, had I only deceived myself
to get out of my hell and cut my ties?

I beat up myself with each successive failure.
I am not a good student, so how can I be a good teacher?
I can not learn from my mistakes in past.
Consequently, my shadow friends are still my keepers.

They hold me close and keep me safe
from prying hands of help who want me to escape.
My solace is here where I know things to be.
Do I go, or do I stay? I am afraid of which path to take.

My journey is long because I travel in circles.
I am afraid to go too far because of painful hurdles.
It is easier to stay where I am, than to leave or become free.
But, I like to keep moving even if it is at pace with turtles.

Come to me, my shadow friends,
with your arms of comfort and ears you lend.
Keep away the joys of love,
and the pain I feel when, at me, their smiles they send.

Hate-love wars – love to hate.
Who is in control? What is my fate?
Let me hurry! Let me change!
For the loved ones in my life, forever they will not wait.