Sunday, April 12, 2020

Plague Journal #13

The real-deal nightmares have begun. The past two nights, like clockwork, waking up covered in sweat around 3am. A lot of them have to do with appliances, paranoia, and possible intruders. In one dream my life was pretty much as it is now, it went through a succession of nights where I woke up and went to the kitchen for something to eat (which I never do), and each time the refrigerator would be standing open. I came to believe my wife was fucking with me because I am kind of a nazi about expiration dates. I confronted her one night and she plead ignorance. I believed her. Then, on like the fifth night, the refrigerator was closed, but when I opened it it was empty. And the automatic light wasn't coming on. This was the first time I was truly afraid, for some reason. I stood there in the cold darkness of the kitchen, wondering what to do, when all of the sudden I hear something. A distant chorus of whispers. Sounded like "Uhhhhshh". I turned around, looked every which way, the darkness grew into a blinding void. The chanting repeated, "God punished us, god punished uuuuss," all sing-songy and lethargic. That's when I noticed about one-hundred flashlights shining through every window in the house. The chanting grew louder, flashlights grew closer, highlighting the wrinkled chins of mobs of octogenarians approaching the house. 

It rained and stormed all day. Read 50ish pages of Against Nature, enjoying it for the most part. Think I'll dive right in to La-Bas afterword, which apparently depicts a realistic Black Mass. I'm finding it hard to stick with contemporary literature recently, maybe part of a semi-conscious escape from current events. Maybe a re-read of The Castle next? 

I didn't write a single word today other than on this blog. That's okay because I did more than double my word count yesterday. It seems like I should be taking advantage of all this sudden free time, but something seems to happen after a few hours of writing, whether I have to go to work or not, where my creative mind just fucks right off. Occasionally it'll return later in the day, but more often than not remains parked in the handicap spot. 

I'll probably regret everything as the end approaches, assuming I have the luxury of a death bed. 

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