An Author's Journal

© 1996-2015 by the author

click on author's photo to read the blog tags relating to the creative nonfiction breakaway; The Pattern Of Diagnosis.

2016030301475245115 - 2002 Revisited (Old Nightmare Found)
This had to be written around the events of September 11, 2001, as I had been plagued by nightmares thinking about how I could been on one of those plans coming back from Florida when I was planning to go visit my mother in the Tampa Bay area as she was living there for now almost 2 years at the time. She's been living in the area almost as long as she lived around Roselle and Glendale Heights, Illinois. I wrote this as Grandma Pacione was still alive at the time as I would been 25 years old when this was written. As I am writing new material as you're waiting for the story A Society Unpublished as The Conservative. I held the nightmarish ruins in my hand when I came back fron New Orleans, Lousiana, it changed the way I traveled as I found the handwritten version of "Accident Revisited." Those of you who were the Diary-X faithful this is some of the Writings From The Grave written wors hosted here as well. If you wonder about these old works of mine you can contact me via here as it's weird finding this shit again. I am planning to type up on one of my older journals I wrote about being in 21 Kellogg too as that would been 9 years since I was released.
Real of the Uncertain
Artwork by Nickolaus A. Pacione
Word Count: 2,200 Words artwork and journal © 2002-present by me

The thoughts that would come to the conscious thought would be the imagery which is in a certain dream that I had to bring out the surface — that it would be in the odors so strong in the dream that one has to best describe them as unearthly horrifying. In which is written would be what was in the dream of last night's sleep — from the horrors drawn out, what is the most vivid from the dream was the odor of burning flesh. From what could be written of this dream it would fall in line with what is written in the Book Of Revelation in the sense but one cannot really say for sure.
      Just for truth to be certain that the horrors in the mind from the dreams are that would be written of the uncertain nightmares — that it would be in the thoughts impending to be uncertain. Only if one cannot explain the reasons for the dreams being as darkly vivid as they are but it would be in the sense to the words written as gospel of the horrors from the end. In the written thoughts drawn from the insanity of the nightmares writing out — convictions of the writing thoughts into the pages staring back at one as they would close their eyes as the nightfall awaits their mind.
     Uncertain thoughts in the mind of one; I would be the one who would relate the nightmares of the decaying drawn out as it would be seen in the lakes of blood. Everything that would be written in the dropping of the fire — when they would be saying to their souls as their bodies fall asleep, bidding their families farewell. From in their surviving families dreams — while they would sleep, they would ask the questions to the ones who died — could they see the tears of those who were watching the screen that day of knowing it would be their last hours. It would be when one begins to hear all the human stories written out by the videocassettes and the journalists they speak to that it would be in the nightmares drawn from both ground zeros. In the nightmares drawn out from innocent blood — and the prayers of the ones who had made it out by the threads of their soul it would be in the mind that would be as the fingers running across the keypad. In the letters written to the circles which it would be — from the worry of the one from the circle who is not accounted for is the worry turning into nightmares of knowing that person who he had spent writing for two years would not be reading this journal or the letters that had been written to her.
      While this is written — the thoughts would play out over and over, in the nightmares that I would have would be in the mind as it would be shared with who have been watching the television that day. And this would be the months later after September, it would be in the mind at the time and burned into the memory and dreams inside. In the horrors of the moments written; prayers written in the back of the soul scarring at the surface — black scars looking up bubbling on the flesh. I would be seeing the pictures and portraits of the uncertain — how it would be the encumbering doom written in the back of the mind. From this I would pen — in the fingers which nervously run across the keys of the computer light staring back at me in the darkness. In the thoughts that would be — it would be in the dreams which are written out saying that only God now knows of what had happened to the correspondent.
      The questions drawn out from an imagination of a horror writer is something that no one would want to even draw out — that in the black it would be in the dark, shapeless and nameless in its form; a nightmare without a form and shape drawing upon the flesh of the living. In the state where one is not dead but dreaming, one could feel the cold, icy black fingers brushing across the flesh as one sleeps — the would leave the unseen scars which are the horror drawn out from what is seen written in ink and seen on the media. In the question of what would come with the postages, that it would appear to have a white powder that no one would want to see in their mail. In the sickness and burial of many without a reason --- the nightmares drawn out would be in the apocalyptic thoughts as the moon would show its dark light. It would be in the uncertain nightmares written in the orphaned eyes. When their eyes are closed — could they not tell between the real and nightmare because it would appear to be the same picture either way, the real becoming the nightmare, and the nightmare becoming the real. It would be in the sleep which would be in the thoughts that had been left with the scars which would not heal — in the time which would be in the burial after burial.
     Their prayers spoken to the empty skies went the thoughts in the back of the mind become sicker as the day dies — when they would see that the sun would pass away, mortality is a mirror that looks back at them with the reflection of oneself. It would be haunting to see which in time of tragedy which had created a sick mind — that it would be in the self-injury of the human soul which would slowly come as they would grow numb to the pain and the horror which had left their prayers uncertain. That in the dreams not even God can even write out the dark revelations that are there, from what would be in their sleep when they close their eyes — would they see that when they close their eyes it might be their last night among the living. In the questions which are asked haunting the thoughts in the mind as a ghost which would haunt the family of the living — it would be in the graves which it would be as the dreams would be written out. It would be as I was laying in bed still with the television flickering like a fire in the woods — that it would be as it would play out in the back of my mind, looking at the stars in the sky from the living room made into my sleeping area. It would be in the questions that would come to be — that in the black minds in the horrors where they start. It would be in the shadow written in the darkness and light — from it would be in the reality becoming the nightmare while the nightmare, piece by piece becomes the reality.
      It would be in the dreams where they are thrashing and fighting to get out of the rubble when they are not buried — one more nightmare written among their minds. I would be the one in the dark and the smoked shadows among the odor of burnt flesh growing stronger before me. Insane within the prayers told among the charred remains of death standing all around me — that it would be in the nightmares written inside the reality becoming the nightmare before my eyes. As the thoughts would be in the mind — the horrors written in the Book of Revelation would be in the mind as I am writing this entry out with the nervous thoughts in my sleep. As one would sleep, among the dreams would they would see among the dead and dreaming — that it would be when they would pray not to dream anymore because the dreams that would be in the real of the uncertain.
     The only certain thing within the nightmares written into reality is that when they awaken is to that they have to go to another funeral within weeks of another or a day to another. Hours in the time where they thrash their way out of the horror which they dream where they are buried alive within the fears which become the real of the uncertain. The ripping of their flesh comes as the pillars of salt burn their lacerated wounds coming down as the falling glass cuts their limbs apart while running in horror. It would be in the real of the uncertain playing into their nightmares when they begin to sleep and when the sleep slips into where they are not dead but dreaming. Written in the minds that remain -- of the souls who are still awake but appear to be sleeping; dreaming. That it would be in the thoughts writing into their minds, knowing that tomorrow would never come. From this would be in the nightmares written in the journal pages becoming gospel in a bible written in a time of war — in the ghosts of war, the words written among the journal pages would outlive the writer that is writing them.
     Among the words, sitting in the torment writing in the soul — from the horrors descending as the warlords climb to the new century, it would be in the black winters ahead which it would be. The nightmares of the uncertain as the pages are written in the letters mirroring the unknown truth standing out there. In the thoughts which are writing — there is not an ounce of sleep which is at the cost of having a night without a single nightmare, the nightmares which would be after what would come after seeing the events of indescribable horror and things that would never be written among the pages of fiction or are becoming documented as time comes on. Words written in the blackest of histories, names written on the graves appearing in the thousands. When it would be among the buried — mothers, fathers, and children, all with families who would have nightmares from the real of the uncertain that knowing what had happened in the last hours would be playing in the back of their mind. Thousands of coffins passing by them week over week, season over season — that it would be the dream of seeing each person walking off the buildings and into the water with the name of the unspeakable deed carved into their heads. Mothers, fathers, and children each have the name carved into their head. It would be to the contrary to the thoughts written by the dark one of the past — where the mythology would sort out the living from the dead.
      As many would say in fragments of their journals of what had happened on the day — it would be in the horror written in the mind of the nightmares that would come in time, from in time when the real of the uncertain had became written among us. In the general description of the horrible that it would be in the sleep one is scared to fall under, in obscurities of the thoughts which would come at the time of new war — from in the mind of one who was formerly from the military would understand what is going down or going on. From I — from of the words which are written in the clear and present nightmares in the mind standing before the one who is writing this narrative journal. It would be in the words written from in the dreams of when I had awakened in the dream that I was laying in white dust — that would be all around me with people standing before me with parts of their body had been slowly eaten away at. The notion that something is eating away at their flesh which is something they cannot see — only know that when it slowly decays before their eyes, the coughing of organs in small pieces would come after the flesh decay.
      Inner horrors coming forth before their minds eating away to the bones — when they would see in the nightmares of the real from the uncertain. Coming into the hell which is in the mind of the nightmare — it would be looking back at me with my fingers racing like rats in a maze. In the nervousness from the horror of the rumors on the news about the bridges being the next targets; it is only in horror that one could pray that something like that would not happen, nor in the eyes of the Gods or the God who hears the words that are spoken in desperation of the thoughts among the horror. Cancer cells growing in the horrors within the nightmares writing out in the mind as I am here now — the thoughts drawn out from the heaven which depicts it as being the pearly gates but in the nightmares which is drawn, heaven is in the color of black within the death of a living machine. It would be inside the mind — nervousness in the emotions which race, as the fingers type with a fevered pace that would only be in the nightmarish mind of horror, horror that stands in the real of the uncertain.


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