From the Page on My Nightstand

I am not usually one who remember dreams, let alone shares them on the internet. Like Netflix original series, dreams are things I consume in a single night which then loose all detail in the morning. The other night however, I woke and felt compelled to write down the events of the vivid dream I had just exited, before once again falling asleep. There is a an incredible amount of detail written down describing this dream of which I now have very little recollection. It is strange for me to think that this paper which I hold in my hand contains more information about my own creation than the does the mind which created it. Upon reading the dilemma I myself had written down only a few hours before, I was struck with a sense of panic which some strange corner of my brain echoed back to me. The writing describes in rough, stream-of-consciousness style being trapped with the face of another human being. My dream-self seems to have struggled with the idea of how to gain the trust of his/my loved ones while stuck with the mutilated face of another man. Since the dream ended without resolution, as dreams are so prone to do, I can only assume that he/I was unable to find a solution. Even awake and in full control of faculties, I can think of no way to convince someone to listen to what would seem to be the ravings of a lunatic long enough to present what scant proof my memories could provide. It is a truly terrifying concept to ponder, but one which thankfully has no of ever coming to pass.

From the page on my nightstand:
“I remove myself from the bank and still blind, release myself from the board. Kneeling, I turn to see an old, once white school bus with a red stripe facing parallel to the run above and in the direction of the lodge. I see a skier approach the edge of the run so far above. He has long straight black hair and a beard. He is much taller than me. He says nothing but I can see on his face that he is deciding what to do. The man is my brother my panicked brain suggests. I call out to him but the words make no sense. They form in my head as Korean letters. I yell to the same result. The man looks up the slope to his right, then leaves. 
I take off my thin black gloves and look at my face (Dreamworld? Or did I look in the bus mirror? Memory fading). My left eye is swollen, but open wider. It is puffy and a solid, opaque, dull red. My hair is shorter and my face is cut. The injury seems un-shocking, even expected although I feel no sensation of pain. I look as though I have been stung by bees although I have not. The scary part is that my face in unmistakably not my own. It is the face of a younger Korean man! What dispare grasps me then. I imagine trying to prove my identity to my family. They would turn me away just as the man turned from me. I am hideous and ranting. My own mother would surely push me aside. I move away from the bus…”

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