Dreamland

They told me, this place was made for the distraught souls, just like mine. It must have been because all of those nights I spent, tangled up in some other world of tattered nothings and awful dreams, that robbed me of a healthy conscience. And because of my rotting mind, I needed some sort of haven to save me from the desires it gave me. Yes, the desires. Which leads me to how I’ll start this story.

Everyone here in Dreamland got here the same way. There’s only one way to put it: trying to off themselves, and failing. Most of us, arrived here in our slumber, whether it be from asphyxiation, the drugs we took, or excessive bleeding. In that between-life and-death state, we ended up here; in Dreamland.

There’s no complicated way to explain what it is. Basically, for instance, let’s say, a close friend of mine, Allison, who tried to kill herself via slicing an artery, fell asleep, when she lost about a gallon of blood. She had to be ninety-nine percent gone, when her father found the sight, and dropped the plate of pumpkin-pie, neatly topped with whipped cream and sprinkled when cinnamon, along with a glass of milk, which shattered everywhere when it hit the tile floor. When she was unconscious, she came to the gates of Dreamland. It’s much different than real life, being awake. And when the doctors ask me why I insist on sleeping so much, I don’t even speak a sentence, all I say, is “Dreamland.” I’m in Dreamland.