I Dreamt That Same Dark Hallway Again, But This Time I Walked Through It And Into My Kitchen. My Grandmother Was In There, Fixing A Warm Breakfast, And She Smiled And Said Something To Me. But It Was So Muted And Fuzzy That It Wasn't Audible, And As I Looked At Her, Trying To Piece Together What She Had Said, Something Caught My Attention Outside Of The Kitchen Window Behind Her.

I Can't Recall Much, Only A Brief Dream Of Walking Through The Cold, Lonely Hallways Of My Home That Felt Incredibly Real. It Was So Real, In Fact, That I Actually Thought I Had Done That This Morning.

It Seems That This Is A Common Theme With All Of My Dreams Lately. Painful, Distorted Versions Of Reality That Are Neither Real Nor Fictional. Even My Most Abstract Of Dreams Feel This Way To Me. I Keep Waking Up To Find Things In My House, Only To Realize That These Things Aren't Actually There, Or That They Don't Even Exist. It's Frustrating.

I Hate It More Than Anything, But It's Fascinating To Me. The Way The Human Brain Can Produce A Chemical So Powerful That It Creates An Alternate Reality Based On The Individual's Own Thoughts And Perceptions Is Absolutely Incredible. I Hate Loathing It.

But, Still, I Do.