Dreams and Freud(1)

Dreams and Freud

They say there are no innocents under the butcher's knife, but he told me that "whatever a man does, he does for a reason".

I believed him when he said that every drop of blood is a whisper of the soul, and every swing of the knife takes away a dream that was once alive and well.But he also told me that Freud-a great psychologist-said that dreams are the fulfillment of wishes.The dreams he wanted to take away were all already wish-fulfillment, and none of them weren't, at least until now it seemed.

I have followed him not long and equally not short, a time that is just right, neither too long nor too short, enough for an ordinary man.He does not think of me much, but whenever he does he must have something to do.

My first acquaintance with him was in college, we were in the same college, the weirdest of all colleges, so full of freaks that they say there are no normal people there.

In the foreign country to develop a habit, every night back to the residence when passing the bar to drink a few cups of pleasure, the bar is everywhere here, most often go to the college bar.

Next door sat him, he was still next door to the psychology department students, said to be transferred from the art department, there are rumors that his style of painting is too dark, the school is afraid of his one day onset can not control their own, the college a lot of freaks he is a few to attract special attention.

His hands are very nice, long and pale, well boned, if it is on the operating table that must be a good pair of hands, of course, on the canvas will certainly be accomplished.I surreptitiously admired his hands and realized that he was drinking a very high alcohol content and had already added a glass, he stirred the ice in his glass aimlessly without changing his face, slurping elegantly and taking small sips of his drink.

Soon, my glass was at the bottom, and I knew I had enough to get a good night's sleep.I was about to pay when the bartender told me he had already paid for me.Slowly fussing with his collar next to him, he said in a voice only the two of us could hear, "Keep up."

Not quite sober after my drink, I dizzily followed him, completely unsure why I was listening to him.Maybe it was his tone of voice that brooked no refusal, either curiosity overcame reason, or I had a crush on him.

It was raining outside and he still smelled like whiskey, so I just had to have a beer.We got in a cab, he gave an address, and half an hour later some remote backwoods place, barely visible, was an old house, supposedly a house with ancient Japanese or Korean features, with writing lanterns hanging in front of the door.

The old house looks shabby, but inside is everything, more warm and cozy than my place with thousands of dollars in rent.Downstairs is cozy wind, upstairs is dark gothic style, there is a floor is simple black and white gray, he put his coat and hat in the ground floor, leading me up.The staircase leading to the third floor traverses the entire second floor corridor, and every room is compact and closed, just short of having a seal on it.The third floor was the attic, like his studio, there was a lamp on the table, the only source of light in the whole attic, the table and the floor was piled up with messy things, a lot of them were the past issues of various newspapers and magazines, no one has organized the appearance for a long time.

Just when I thought that was the end of the attic, he opened a small door in the bookshelf and ventured inside.

I followed close behind.There's a studio inside, quite organized and spotless.

"Come in."

I was as nonchalant as could be, perhaps also because I was drunk and uninhibited, and I didn't excuse myself, sitting uninvited in the chair across from him.In the afterglow, I saw that he rummaged around in a drawer, a crisp bullet was loaded, I tensed up and sobered up most of the wine, it's not going to kill me to silence me, is it?

"Do you know Freud?"He spoke suddenly, his voice low with a hint of huskiness.

I froze for a moment and nodded.