Dreams and Freud(extra2)

"A dream is the fulfillment of a wish."

"Dreams are unfulfilled wishes."

I was thirteen when I had my first dream about killing someone, I had just finished my chaotic childhood.

In the dream I stood behind the other man and smashed him on the back with a vase I had in my hand, he in turn pinned me to the ground and beat me, adults are much stronger than I. The first time I had a dream like that I was awakened, it was the moment he woke up with a dagger in his heart, my mother stood in the doorway of the room and saw me awake but then turned away.I lay in bed in a cold sweat, chest heaving, to the ceiling, the heart hidden pain, not because of fear but an unspeakable ... sense of emptiness.

The next day, I was distracted in class, the image from the dream floated in front of my eyes, and subconsciously traced the shape of his blade with my finger on the table, the lines sharp and smooth, as if cutting the boundaries of reality.

I tried to get help from a psychiatrist, describing my dream, only for that doctor to listen and say carelessly that it was just a sign of anxiety.Turning my head I heard him and the family doctor who came to dress my mother's wounds bad-mouthing our family, saying that my father was an indifferent businessman with profit above all else, and that my mother was a crazy artist.They also said that the reason why I displayed a withdrawn personality at a young age that was different from my peers was closely related to my mother, and that I wouldn't have been cold-blooded if she hadn't always made her audacious art.At her last art of death, my mother finally touched my head and told me, "You'll see, dear."I saw her calmness and composure as she said Father would be coming home today.

It was with a grim face that my father returned home, frowning at my mother's remains, and when I thought he would complain about how much time and money my mother had wasted on him again, he regretted slightly, "I thought I was told that life would give me control.Why did you die so early."He looked up and saw me and ordered the housekeeper to send me to boarding school, my mother used to love me and protect me from my father who was not allowed to educate me in his way, and now that my mother had passed away it was impossible for my father to give up his time to be with me.In my dream that night, my mother smiled at me in the infinite darkness and handed me a knife.For the first time I managed to kill the man in my dream, whose face I could see after his death, the psychiatrist who criticized my mother.

At the age of sixteen, I finally grew to understand the meaning of dreams.My dreams were coherent, like a world parallel to reality, where it was possible to continue reality in dreams and I could take my memories away from them.The border between the two worlds was broken, and I have been traveling freely between them ever since.Inverted as the son of an artist, my mother's skill is something I have no knowledge of.

One day, in my dream, I beheaded my uncle who had been preparing to kill me.I remember the weight of the knife, the temperature of the blood splashing against my skin.But when I woke up, the faint trace of blood between my fingers, the smell of iron filings in the air and the strange death of my uncle made me begin to wonder which was the dream.

I learned to wear an icon as a criterion for discernment, a ring on the middle finger of my left hand that twisted to make a clicking sound of gears turning.

When I was nineteen, I switched from the art department to the psychology department.They said my paintings were too dark and grotesque, too real, like madmen.But they didn't understand that the real madman is not the person who paints, but the ugly world on the canvas.

I study dreams, the subconscious mind, the darkest part of the human subconscious.

They say Freud believed that dreams are the fulfillment of wishes.But I don't believe it.

If dreams are just wish fulfillment, then why have I killed countless people in my dreams and remain unsatisfied in reality?

I kept repeating the dream, kept searching for answers.Until the day I noticed her, she was standing next to me, then the scene backed up and we appeared in a bar, she sat on the edge and asked for a beer, drinking it slowly.

I stared at her, feeling a strange familiarity, that she was supposed to be there, like in the dream.

I woke up and waited for her at the bar, just like in the dream.

She was watching me too, her eyes searching, curious and a hint of madness that shouldn't belong to her.She was a law student, a defender of justice, and a year older than me, and I knew deep down that what I was trying to get her to help me with was against the moral principles of a law student, but I suddenly remembered my mother's words, "You'll see, dear."I understood what my mother meant, and I took her to my house.

She didn't say no and was even excited about my behavior.She cared about my paintings and asked what inspired me.I told her, "Dreams."She said, "You dream about me."She was much smarter than I thought and quickly realized something.

Unlike me, her dreams don't bring traces of reality, and still she can tell the difference between dreams and reality.But she didn't care, like I used to, she enjoyed the sinking, and began to look forward to it, like a child who has a secret world all to himself and then looks forward to the next surprise every second.

We became each other's accomplices.

She used her legal knowledge to help me erase the traces of reality, and I used my dreams to open the door to the abyss for her.

My dreams suddenly changed one day, and in them I killed a man I shouldn't have.He never appeared in reality, but the moment he died, I suddenly realized-it wasn't my dream, but someone else's.He crashed through the fact that I had just finished killing a man, and compelled me to do the same to him, and while dealing with the previous one, she helped me understand the life of the second one.I was terrified, killing in someone else's dream was always going to get me caught.I awoke from my dream, realizing my hands were shaking.An unease I had never felt before terrified me.

If dreams are the fulfillment of wishes, then whose wish is this dream?

If dreams are unfulfilled wishes, then who am I fulfilling them for?

I began to see visions and hear whispers I hadn't heard before.The people I used to kill in my dreams, they appeared in reality, and the way they looked at me could not be considered innocent.They chased after me, reminding me at every turn, "You are but a puppet of the dream world."

I began to wonder if I really existed.

I began to wonder if reality was really mine.

I dream of my mother, my passing, and finally my mother sitting on the coffin smiling gently and asking me if I am tired.The images in front of my eyes shattered, and I finally realized - I was never the master of my dreams.I was the one consumed by the dream.

Once, on a rainy night, I stopped and realized I had come to the end of the road.She was still standing beside me, her eyes confused."You said there are no innocent beings under the butcher's knife."She attempted to persuade me, "We are doing God's work for him."

I wanted to laugh, but couldn't.

"Perhaps we are the innocent beings."I replied, "We are being driven insane by the madness of this world."

She froze, looking at me with the same disbelief and fear as I had at first.

I knew that she was not afraid of me, but of herself.

Eventually I was sent to the insane asylum, but I knew that it wasn't over.

Because in my dreams I saw her standing in the doorway of my hospital room asking, "You're still going to wake up, aren't you?"

And I, smiling, slowly nodded my head.

Money solves ninety percent of my problems, being very rich solves the remaining nine point nine percent, and while my father's money takes care of the madhouse for me, I still need to take care of the remaining zero point one percent myself, and like my mother, face what I once didn't want to face.My dreams are not the same as reality, and dreams are just as important as Freud.