"ghetto shipping containers slow motion gang documentary poem def poetry rape cute girl crush younger version music cybermen farm trapped tremors bullets path slowest runner I was going to die woke barely could move"I was writing a personal tumblr post about a dream I had. I copied the completed text mostly verbatim here. This blog has been... dormant, I know. The thought that whatever happened to grooveshark lost most of the music I used depresses me. But I'm on tumblr often. I like it there.
I had a dream last night(this morning?). It started out like a whovian nightmare with me being trapped in a small house with possibly The Doctor, a companion and one other. It was like the movie tremors, but with cybermen replacing the burrowing worms. Which meant as little movement as possible to avoid vibrations.
Somehow I escaped that and for some reason I ended up in a tiny ghetto with houses made from shipping containers. I've dreamed of seeing this place before but never dreamed of actually being there. I was in the company of someone who lived there. Somebody humble but respected by everyone there. I didn't visualize a face. I was introduced to someone who seemed to be the leader there. He was the spitting image of Gucci Mane. He was intimidating but I was welcomed.
I was allowed to explore a bit. They were having a big cook up; I wouldn't call it a barbecue. When I returned to where everyone was I saw a girl I once found attractive, in real life, sitting by that leader. But she was younger, dangerously younger. I could tell from her light skin and outfit that she wasn't from there. I don't know what I was doing but I didn't notice those two left until I heard her scream. My heart sunk and I thought the worst. I thought she was being forced to do something she didn't want to. I ran in the direction of the scream. What I saw was a group of people dressed alike near the leader's container that I also, somehow, knew weren't from there.
Adrenaline is often called a fight or flight hormone. It brought me to that point with the urge to fight but at that very moment it was sending a different signal to my body. Confused, I turned around to look at the others who chased behind me after the scream. They were all turning to run. Then I started to run too.
I was the slowest of this pack. I saw more of the matching clothes gang pour through the cracks of the little community. I though I was going to die. I knew I was going to die. I knew I'd be picked off. I kept running.
That's when everything slowed down. I was running in slow motion, scared out of mind as I saw bullets slowly passed me, barely missing me. As we were exiting that lot that held the little community my focus slowly shifted. First to the bullet that passed right across my line of vision, from left to right. Then to the shooters in those same matching clothes in the distance to my left. I was going to die. Finally I focused ahead to Humble and Respected running for his own life. I kept running.
That's when the narration started. Much like a documentary or tragic drama, a booming James Earl Jones sort of voice started to give what sounded like a eulogy of Humble and Respected. The voice mentioned his poetry and I immediately, silently envisioned one of his performances. He was going to die. We kept running.
As my imagination stretched to its limit to create some sort of escape from this I got awoken by my mother. She was asking if I let the clothes rinse in the washing machine yesterday. I did. I was barely conscious enough to answer coherently though. She commented on how I fell asleep with my laptop in my lap. I didn't even feel it there. After she left I bent my knees and poured everything I could remember into a text post. Then I started to edit.
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