Dreams are Fickle Things

Recently, I had a very realistic dream that a friend of mine was standing in my room with no pants on while screeching like a bird. The fact that it seemed realistic is the interesting part to me.

When I was 15, I dreamt that insects were eating people's faces.

Like most of my dreams, the plot shifted many times; the flesh-eating affliction became a disease, a chemical burn, rats were at one point the culprit, and so fourth.

The only thing that remained consistent was the rotten hole in my ankle between my ankle bone and my Achilles tendon on my left foot.

The wound looked much like what other people were experiencing: black, rotten flesh that covered a good deal of my foot and,  from the side, you could see a hole,  the diameter of a quarter, running right through my foot at the aforementioned spot between the ankle and Achilles tendon.

Most of this dream was spent hobbling around on my damaged appendage.

Many of my dreams for the past six years have revolved around vivid and violent imagery.

Why, just a few nights ago I had a dream about a man and a woman sitting in a white room. They were both very pale, with lips blood red. Their hair was jet black, and their eyes were just as dark. 

The man began to shave off the woman's long hair, until only a few stringy patches were left.

He then cut off her left arm with a long silver knife, which upset him as he realized she could no longer hold him.

Desperate for her affection, he placed her right hand on his cheek, and began sewing it in place.

The only colors were red, black, and white.

As he ties off the last stitch, the scene fades away and I drift on to another dream.