The following is fictional. It is based on a recent dream.
I am in a room with my father, who sits on a couch, and several others. He tells me he no longer understands my current endeavours, and is worried I may be doing something illegal. He looks away. A tear running down my cheek, I ask him what he is talking about. “It’s not true”, I say, “why would you think that?” He offers no response. My heart filled with newfound terror and exasperation, I run around the house, crying. Every room seems to be occupied by a single dark and unfamiliar figure, whose back is turned to me. My vision and thoughts begin to spin. I stumble into the kitchen, emotions oscillating wildly between defensiveness, rage, confusion, and loneliness. I open a drawer and produce a long chef’s knife. The cold steel blade seems oddly comforting, so I take it with me. My senses still hopelessly warped, I struggle through the aether in all its sheer viscosity. Various doors around the house, which has gained a foreign aura, have now closed. I do not bother trying to reopen them, for I know it is useless. I come to a room where a dark-haired woman lies facing up on the bed, her legs hanging off the side. I find myself caressing her in desperation. “Help me… where is everyone? They don’t believe me,” I lament. Saying nothing, she returns to me a strikingly hollow gaze. As I stare back in bewilderment, a few seconds pass and I realize that I am looking into the eyes of an insect. I feel an acute tinge of utter disgust, but it is short-lived. As though spacetime had been haphazardly cut and glued, a scream erupts from my very ear drum, followed by another, and another, and another. I lay on the dark shores of a beach. It is night, but the sky above me flickers an awful white at 60 Hz. It is repulsively perfect.