Am I dreaming? I can't move or lift my body. There was no expanse of light or void that traps my mind. There was nothing to describe. There was nobody here that I recall. There are few dead souls that I can no longer rejoice at their sight.

It doesn't feel like I'm dreaming.

The world is piecing together. There was pain. It was made with pain. I was in pain. It hurt to exist here.

I can't breathe. I can't exclaim. I can't do anything. All I can do is hurt. All I could do is hurt.

I'm crying now. I can't feel the tears but I know I'm crying. I'm alone. I can't see my knees or my body. When I try to see, I see fragments of myself moving around and wandering, unable to get myself off of the rails bringing me along for a ride I don't want to participate in. I'm moving, chugging along with the tears making a trail along the ground. I want to escape. I want to move. I want to dream but it won't let me.

No, no, no, this is not happening. I won't allow this. I want to move. So, I started to move anyway.

Where was I going? I was heading toward a door. I recognize the door. I've walked through this door in another dream. I can hazily recall what happened, the only thing I could remember being the blood smeared all over the floor, the tiled walls, and the straight jacket meant to ensure those ensnared in them could never move. I thought of what happened after that, what I did to change it. Yet I don't remember what happened. I rarely remember what happens in my dreams. I don't understand why I haven't done this before or why now it's been so easy for me to manipulate what occurs in my dreams. I was able to think so clearly in a world where I don't usually think or stop me from moving to places I don't want to go.

Now that I can move, I can wander around at my own pace.

I turned around, staring at the mashed potatoes of buildings from bustling cities, cars crashing together in a chaotic mess, and mansions or quaint houses melting together like lava embracing. In one flutter of my eyelids, it all became an image, a snowy clearing surrounding a wooden shack, small and comfortable yet lost alone in the middle of nowhere. Now I could open the door without any fear. There would be no blood because I wanted there to be no blood. There would be no straight jackets or parents or old faces here. There was nothing here that was something I'd dislike. There was nobody here other than people I wanted to be here and me. People aren't laughing, screaming, weeping, dancing, speaking, climbing, and falling.

There was nothing here but me and me alongside me and nobody other than me.

I opened the door but I stopped opening it. There was the sound of shuffling. It broke my immersion, the tired droll, the silent escapism, and the dainty wilderness that pertains to me and only me. It was easy to recognize him for he was pink and covered in arms, more arms and eyes than usual. There were three more eyes on each side and an extra pair of arms between each of the other sets of arms. He was here. Thomas was here. Why is he here? He's just a new kid. He's not me. He isn't me. He is not me. I wouldn't normally want to see him here. I would not normally want to see him here. I don't understand what's happening. I can't comprehend what's happening. What's happening? He's happening. I'm not happening.

Panicking, panicking, panicking, I'm panicking. His eyes are staring me down yet he's doing nothing but standing there. Does he not notice me staring back? There were holes, black holes, surrounding him, pulling in the dream around him, the fabric of reality, yet not devouring it, merely creating a dream that he could dream here with. How can I tell? I don't know how I can tell. I can just tell because I am my dream. He's a part of my dream. Are we dreaming together or is he dreaming in my dream? It feels like he's not there but I can see him. Could we be one?

So I approached him, slamming the door shut behind me of my once desired shack. It disappeared in the mound of snow that materialized behind me in a flurry of beauty. I made that because I don't care about it anymore.

There was something about him that made me want to approach him.

There was something about him that made me want to talk to him.

There was something about him that made me not fear if he'll run away like my last love did when I told him how I felt.

There was something about him that made me feel as if he won't be afraid of me when I tell him.

There was something about him that makes me not care about what other people will think, even in a much more pathetic town than the one I lived in last year.

There was something about him.

He's right in front of me, the hole around him erasing as our dreams become one. Why? It's because I made it this way. I didn't even have to exert any effort to make it happen. It just went away. My consciousness was no longer in the real world. It was here in my snowflake-filled void with the arachnid boy standing in front of me. There was nobody else that I wanted to be in here with me but this boy that I just met.

I wanted him to smile but he wasn't smiling. His expression was smeared with fear and shear shock that caused him to step out of the cracks in the dream that once surrounded him snared him. He didn't say anything. I don't think he knows that he can speak in a dream. I've spoken in a dream before. So, I'm going to show him.

So, I spoke, attempting to say a greeting but I couldn't hear myself speak. I stopped myself from speaking. He didn't want to hear me speak. For some reason, I could tell.

So, I attempted to hug him. He stepped backward out of the hug. I wanted to comfort him. I wanted him to know it was okay. Was that weird? Would he hate me if I did that? I don't know... but this is a dream.

So,

I

hugged

him.

And then, I woke up.