Nightmare Log
Aug. 16th, 2015 08:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xyzzysqrlAt least this was a DIFFERENT nightmare, not involving anyone I know except me. Still, uhm... don't read this. This is just logged because I log these things. Don't.
At the request of the Red Queen, I was being converted into a clock. Why? A whim. She had given an order and it was to be done. So I was laid out on a decorative marble garden feature and opened, and everyone at her party was given a whack at adding something they'd like.
So out went the guts in a pile, and in went tubes and gears. Long cuts were made and an argument was had about aesthetics. The screws were bonded to bone, and the wires strung and tugged at much too hard and out everything came and had to be refitted. The drill was employed.
The good pony prince (and what was he doing there?) explained to his retinue just a little too quiet-loud that it was AMERICANA and they should pretend to ENJOY it, which they did with huge awkward fixed horror-grins. Nobody with hooves should be allowed to operate no matter how good their intentions.
Blood flooded the throat and of COURSE it was the work of the best liver-removal specialist in the queendom to work on the voicebox, which she did with loud complaints that this wasn't her field at all and anyone would be able to tell looking at the sloppy work later.
Finally everyone gathered around to hear the piece tick and chime for the very first time, only something went "CLONK" somewhere inside and all the gears started to swing outward and spiral up towards the sky, and with a shrill wailing sound I became aware that the boyfriend was prodding me to wake up because some twit elsewhere in the apartment building had just burned their breakfast and set the fire alarm off.
I am faintly grateful to the twit.
At the request of the Red Queen, I was being converted into a clock. Why? A whim. She had given an order and it was to be done. So I was laid out on a decorative marble garden feature and opened, and everyone at her party was given a whack at adding something they'd like.
So out went the guts in a pile, and in went tubes and gears. Long cuts were made and an argument was had about aesthetics. The screws were bonded to bone, and the wires strung and tugged at much too hard and out everything came and had to be refitted. The drill was employed.
The good pony prince (and what was he doing there?) explained to his retinue just a little too quiet-loud that it was AMERICANA and they should pretend to ENJOY it, which they did with huge awkward fixed horror-grins. Nobody with hooves should be allowed to operate no matter how good their intentions.
Blood flooded the throat and of COURSE it was the work of the best liver-removal specialist in the queendom to work on the voicebox, which she did with loud complaints that this wasn't her field at all and anyone would be able to tell looking at the sloppy work later.
Finally everyone gathered around to hear the piece tick and chime for the very first time, only something went "CLONK" somewhere inside and all the gears started to swing outward and spiral up towards the sky, and with a shrill wailing sound I became aware that the boyfriend was prodding me to wake up because some twit elsewhere in the apartment building had just burned their breakfast and set the fire alarm off.
I am faintly grateful to the twit.
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no subject
Date: 2015-08-16 06:27 pm (UTC)The symbolism in this one actually looks pretty straightforward once you get past the WTF. People are trying to mold you into the shape they think they need to make you have, but they don't know what they're doing and you cannot usefully sustain the shape anyway. I'd wager your brain is just taking space to process all your dad stuff now that you know it's over for reals.
If it's any consolation, that means this has an end point. Or at least a "not every friggin' goddamn night anymore" point. :P