The Combustible Surrealist (Doot)
It burnt in his mind like a California wildfire.
He was not quite familiar with the idea of a dream eliciting such an intense emotional sensation, but the anger was nigh boiling the forefront of his brain. It may have been an afterthought coloured by a skew of perception, but he could've sworn it was even tinted red at one point. Regardless, the sheer magnitude of the rage he felt was actually probably the most vivid furiousness he had felt in recent memory, and it burnt hot enough to raise beads of sweat all over his body.
It caused him to wake up exactly one minute before his alarm was set to go off--his eyes snapped open and he immediately noticed this fact, he felt rather strange about the whole ordeal on top of the sizzling rage. For what seemed like fifteen or ten minutes, he had been in a half-conscious state of reliving the dream and shaking slightly in pure anger, running over the few images of the end of the dream over and over, gathering a sense of why he was so utterly infuriated. The experience was rattling, he was not the type of person to be affected by dreams or even pay much attention to them--to be exact, he never particularly remembered most of them, letting them slide out of his head upon awaking, but he knew, instanteously, that he would be able to recall this later.
The whole thing was the most memorable fit of rage he had had in the past year, at least. Sitting up in bed, he was shaken for a few minutes, collecting his emotions and thoughts, gathering a more rational sense of reality, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Even the memory of the feeling was strong. Stronger than anything he had felt in ages, since . . .
"Oh? Why's the roommate acting jealous? What's wrong, I didn't think you had any feelings?"
He was not quite familiar with the idea of a dream eliciting such an intense emotional sensation, but the anger was nigh boiling the forefront of his brain. It may have been an afterthought coloured by a skew of perception, but he could've sworn it was even tinted red at one point. Regardless, the sheer magnitude of the rage he felt was actually probably the most vivid furiousness he had felt in recent memory, and it burnt hot enough to raise beads of sweat all over his body.
"Stop, he's just full of remorse."
It caused him to wake up exactly one minute before his alarm was set to go off--his eyes snapped open and he immediately noticed this fact, he felt rather strange about the whole ordeal on top of the sizzling rage. For what seemed like fifteen or ten minutes, he had been in a half-conscious state of reliving the dream and shaking slightly in pure anger, running over the few images of the end of the dream over and over, gathering a sense of why he was so utterly infuriated. The experience was rattling, he was not the type of person to be affected by dreams or even pay much attention to them--to be exact, he never particularly remembered most of them, letting them slide out of his head upon awaking, but he knew, instanteously, that he would be able to recall this later.
"Remorse? No. I regret wasting my time"--"No, no!"--"my money, and my energy on dating you. I can't trust you. You can't stop lying to me."
The whole thing was the most memorable fit of rage he had had in the past year, at least. Sitting up in bed, he was shaken for a few minutes, collecting his emotions and thoughts, gathering a more rational sense of reality, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Even the memory of the feeling was strong. Stronger than anything he had felt in ages, since . . .
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
12:05 AM
