A Dream About A Moose
A Dream About A Moose
I would like preface before we begin with the details of exactly what I dreamt the other night, that I am uncertain if this is in fact a memory or if it was simply a stress dream brought on by my anticipation of finals, and the steady balance of the different aspects of my life that all come to a head around the holidays. This is going to be a fairly dark read. It taps into the very real horrors of the waking world and yet it was abstract, and so odd in the way these concepts presented themselves. So if you're easily disheartened by themes of body horror, hunting, and losing your sense of self, it's best you turn away from this particular post. Last of all–
I'm aware how bad this looks for me if it is a memory. I'm aware I may lose some friends I've made online, but after talking it over with someone who gave me a new perspective to look at it from, I've decided I'm going to share anyway.
I remember it started off with me feeling dazed, like when you're lost in thought for a while and suddenly your focus is violently broken. The room was so dark that the shadows stretched and overlapped with each other, making ominous pulling figures that looked like they could snatch you at a moment’s notice.
The ceiling fan is nothing more than a dark star, churning the heavy, high tension that's in the room, a tension I almost don't understand…almost, until I saw her. She looked to be in her thirties, a mousey little thing with beige brown hair in messy curls around her crown. Her gaze is locked on me, and she is terrified. I mean it makes sense that this dream person would be scared; a random person showed up in her room, but even stranger is that she doesn't make a single move to get up and confront me, make a run for it, or show any self preservation. She just lays there, head propped up by an almost absurd amount of silken pillows, her eyes wide and nearly unblinking– like she's afraid if she does, something awful will happen.
It's then that I realize with a start that she should be scared. I'm here for a reason, and I'm only delaying the natural progression of this dream. I read a study once that said you cannot create a new face in a dream. Every face that appears in a dream is one you once seen and retained in the subconscious parts of your mind. Yet she seemed so real, and so distant in my memories. So I move closer. I don't know why, but I'm waiting for some sort of revelation. Like she’ll suddenly remember me, or maybe she'll tell me how she found herself in such a predicament in the first place. Most of all, I'm holding on for her words. I need it, like a damn second wind. I feel it like an ache in the pit of my stomach, and only she can make it right, if she just tells me why I'm here.
Why am I here, Cassandra?
Why am I here?
Instead, she just sucks in a sharp breath, in that way that makes the collarbone have more depth and prominence. I can see it in her eyes, she knows why I'm here. She stares up at me, her pupils trembling in the brown iris, the pallor of her face. I reach up my hand to her face- and really it's a wonder how I'm so calm during all this. I look at my hands.. I don't know if they're my hands. They look wrong. They don't look human, but of course I don't even have time to panic over such trivial things, when more important things are right in the room with me. So I gently wipe the stray tear that's running down her face, and then, I jam my finger right into the pupil of her eye, and watch my fingers melt down into the dark space, far off into fragmented realities we dare not revisit, for fear that history could repeat itself.
And then just like that, I'm in the woods. Have you ever heard of Golden hour? It's around the time when the sun is level with your eyes and everything is awash in yellow. It's actually one of the better times to hunt deer because deer often use the sun's position to their advantage. Deer will move into the setting/rising sun so any potential danger that could be dangerous ahead of them is silhouetted. I knew this because I was a deer hunter, and in fact I took so much pride in being a female hunter that I had several bumper stickers on my car referring to this fact.
..But that wasn't right… I am not a deer hunter, and I'm certainly not… but I look at my shaking slender hands, with chipped nude nail polish, and a wedding ring, and it's all true. More importantly, I am without my hunting rifle, and I'm running from something, farther and farther into unfamiliar territory. The woods are quiet, so deafeningly quiet, but somehow I was certain that I had not lost whatever was chasing me. My heart racing, I look around for somewhere to hide, and am only greeted by a vast sea of thin pines, with sparse branches. There is nowhere to hide. This is the last gasp of breath I give, while looking down the barrel of a shotgun.
But I'm not- Cassandra’s not ready to die. She watched her husband die to that thing, that stalks the treeline, that may have once called itself a moose. She wasn't going to let it kill her too, not without a fight…but the hunting rifle was gone, and I was greatly outmatched in terms of strength. Have you ever seen a normal, average moose angry? Do you even know how much they weigh? I feel my breath hitch in the back of my throat in a sort of frenzied crescendo, when my eyes finally lock on a smattering of large, jagged rocks there hidden amongst the trees, on the incline of the mountain. Cassandra was definitely small enough to squeeze between the rocks. All she needed was to arm herself. So that's what she did, she frantically did a once over the forest floor before finally grabbing a sturdy enough fallen branch, and wedged herself in between the rocks, sitting low with her knees up, her back pressed against the rocks as she tried to control her breathing.
Somehow she knew the moose was watching her, she could feel its sour breath on her soul, hunting her, ready to take back from her what she had taken from the forest’s precious ecosystem. As dusk settled into a burning red in the last dying light, the malnourished outline of the moose took form. The moose was malnourished, yes. That much is true, but it was large, and it's limbs seem to bend in ways a moose’s legs should not be able to, the knees going back farther and farther as it drunkenly stumbled amongst the trees, eyes glowing in it's feverish search for Cassandra, who was now holding up her stick in a position to strike.
The blood of her husband still stained the moose, the matted coat clotted in dark red and made a macabre crown around his head. The beast’s lips curled into a snarl revealing the sharp teeth of a carnivore, much like a big cat’s or even a bear. The moose began to circle the boulders, nose snuffling as it took in the bursting embers of Cassandra's mounting dead, and as the moose slipped out of her line of vision between the gap in the rocks, time seemed to stop. Every second seemed an eternity, as twilight slipped slowly into night like a forming bruise. I watch the sun set, as the eye of our tormenter eclipses our view, having finally found us-
And then Cassandra is screaming me awake, screaming as if she was right back in that moment of being prey to something bigger than she could ever dream of being. She knows screaming is her only chance of being rid of me, and she's apparently right because that's when I woke up from the dream, having felt like she was so very real. Maybe it was bit naive, but I actually had to sit up and look to make sure I was in my room and not that dream. There was this sour acid taste in the back of my mouth too- and I downed about three glasses of water right there at the kitchen sink that night.
This dream has left me shaken and lost. That's not the right word though, lost. I know exactly where I am, but I'm so fragmented, so stretched thin that it can hardly count that I am here, right now. All I have is my words, and I hope that's enough for you.
More Posts from Imitative-magpie and Others
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the magnus archives?
Hello anomalous speaker from the void, I appreciate you reaching out to me as a guiding light. I actually have had this source recommended to me before by someone, so I will certainly take note of it, and look into the content at a later date. I have the time now, seeing as I'm not allowed back into work until I've recovered..
i think i responded to something you posted somewhere but i figured i'd just reach out here instead!
from my own kin stuff and source and everything, i don't know if you've gone through the magnus archives before but what you're saying sounds a lot like someone deep within the beholding to me. that need to watch, to know things even if it destroys you or others, the intake of others stories. it reminds me of jon honestly with the guilt aspect of it, or maybe even jonah or elias, maybe the archivist from the magnus protocol.
either way, you're always welcome to reach out and talk about your own experience or process of figuring things out!
-marcus keay (non-cannon magnus archive)
@the-neon-attic
I've been hearing that name come up a lot actually, among a few others. The need to watch in spite of the destruction it brings is a good way to put this feeling, you certainly hit the nail on the head there.. There's something more to this though, it's parasitic in nature. I feel as though I'm filling a hollow part of me that's raw and hungry with the mismatched parts of others' memories just to feel whole, and I never have a way to compensate them for this favor. Not in a way that really matters, or makes up for the damage. If that is what the beholding feels like, then I might just have a few questions for you.
I Feel I Should Address The Elephant In The Room
As someone named Julius, I'm looking forward to my first ‘Ides of March’ on Tumblr with you all.
Where Have You Been This February?
If there is one good thing that came out of this emotional breakdown that I had recently on my blog, it's that it opened my eyes to many other blogs that have expressed similar sentiments.
We are from an age of lost souls and misguided ghosts. Through the isolation of quarantine, through our unstable political climates, the mental walls we build for ourselves, and with it being Valentine's weekend- it's no wonder why some of us feel lonely. It's not just an affliction, but a place we find ourselves, and I can't help but think of the strange dreams that I've had about a particular seaside that was forgotten by the sands of time- I want you to know that we can leave here anytime because while you feel lonely, you have never been alone.
Be it your memories that haunt you, or your struggle through the monotony of a hellaish 9-5
Your nights looking up at the ceiling, wondering when your life will begin. I understand that search to find yourself, and feeling no closure or connection to fellow man- and lord knows we’ve tried. Your uncertainty for the future that looks ever bleak,Your struggle to be seen, in a world that constantly disregards the stories that you hold to your heart and the memories behind your eyes- I see these things. You've suffered, yes, but you don't have to hide. You’ve risen to the occasion before, and I know you can again. I promise someday someone is going to see these things in you as well, and so much more that I could never hope to do justice- the things that light you up with joy and really make you who you are because we are not going to remain lost here.
So be brave, and for the time being just know that if you're alone then you're with me.
Do you ever see a post that makes you feel sad, and you can't place your finger on why..?
Do you ever wish you could take the steam with you?
Street lights by sir20
You are probably from final destination 5
I actually have quite the memory to share about bridges specifically... But I need more time to explain myself articulately. Your suggestion certainly has not gone unnoticed though
Oh, I completely forgot to site my source. Honestly I'm surprised because usually when I prattle on about these things, it's met with snores all around. I'm glad that you have taken interest in the topic!
An Incredibly Informal Post About Neuroscience, at 5am
Using a precise technique that involves recording electrical activity directly from the brain, neuroscientists have identified different clusters of neurons that appear to process language on different timescales. Isn't that fascinating?
So, they had recordings of electrical activity from 177 language responsive electrodes– and this was across six patients that they recorded electrical activity in using the electrodes that they implanted in their brain, and then they had the participants read four different types of language stimuli: complete sentences, lists of words, lists of non-words, and sentences that looked grammatically correct but were just kinda word soup, you know? So then they found that in some of the neural populations, activity would fluctuate up and down with each word. In others activity would build up over multiple words before falling again.
So basically, they could potentially map these timescales. Like sensitivity to features of single words or relationships between words. This is just the beginning, they for sure are going to have a follow up article coming out saying they did another test and compared the data, hopefully within the next year. Maybe by then they'll have some of the questions I'm thinking of answered.
Do Memories of Your Religious Upbringing Leave You Feeling Afraid?
Do you know the story of the city of sodom in the bible? You know, in Genesis 19? You know how angels warned Lot and his family to flee the city and not look back? How in the end they were riding out of the city as it was being destroyed, but the wife could not help but look back, and was turned into a pillar of salt as punishment? That story upset me terribly as a kid. It seemed so cruel, and just for what? That sick feeling in your gut that makes you watch on even though you know you shouldn't?
I mean, I know now why it upset me so much. I would've looked too. It's absurd--
Not the other wild claims that were preached to us, interpretations rather than written word, while we all sat there drinking in the words like they were absolute. It was the damn pillar of salt that got me, that just ate me up inside. I can't help myself, I have to look. Every time. It's a real damned if I do, damned if I don't situation and all my life I've been told this ache to reach into the unknown horrors is wrong.. at least until I moved, anyways.
How could a deity punish something as wonderful as free thinking? Or curiosity? These stories make me wonder where the real harm was, or was it just simply another story to inspire fear in the hearts of men from as long back as fear possibly existed.
I want to be divorced from the inner child in me that still deep down believes it, and is half is expecting to be struck dead for breathing life to such thoughts
And then there's the thought that's just outside of my periphery of "Oh, well what would you do of you had that level of power, Jules? Hmm?" And that just makes my brain buzz with anxiety because I know I'd doom us all.
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