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© 1996-2014 by the author

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

2014052623003043708 - 27 September 2001

It would be the encumbering thoughts which would be in the sleep of the recent days, though it would never be as it would be when I would sleep — since the recent weeks past, my sleeping patterns had changed quite a bit. There are days where I could sleep for seventeen hours and then days where I don’t even want to close my eyes. In the encumbering thoughts that the insomnia which I have grows from the nightmares being on trial. The questions coming to mind when I would sit here now in front of a glowing computer screen looking back at me. That I would turn out the lights in the rest of the house so I could see this better — when it would be the current dream from last nights sleep fresh in my mind. The setting was at night in the winter of 1994, when I was just getting ready to enter basic training — the hotel I was staying in assigned to the people entering the military enlistment processing station.
      That only time would take its course as I describe what I am writing here; nearly 7 years later, since it was seven years ago since I had signed those papers to enter. When it was during that time that my faith in God was its strongest but had no idea that I was going to be taking a darker turn then. During that time it was prayer that had driven everything that I had done and now it is the illness driving what I conceive in the nightmares that are written out; which I would hear a laughing that no one around me would hear — from it would be the encumbering thoughts which would be sicker than the illness of my mind. From it would be the dreams that I had weeks before of walking around in the barracks and in one of the stalls a uniformed individual hanging lifelessly from his dog tags — the image from someone committing suicide without a note is something that would be blacker than anything which would be conceived.
      Even as a former Religious Petty Officer in the company, being called “The Good Reverend” but even then they expect one to be the Godly man — though something like the thoughts of seeing one wanting to kill himself is something that make anyone of strong faith lose their faith. Even in the questioning thoughts, that I am here writing the thoughts out in the mind from the dreams that would take on a life of their own in my mind. From it would be the closing thoughts would be in the mind writing out in its journal while one’s eyes are closed in sleep within a room of eighty-eight others. No one’s single prayer can even protect from the nightmares in the mind closing down — from it would be heard in the mind; the dream that would be while one stands before the towers of two and the house of five. From this which would never see in the rest of youth — from of which it is written in the eyes of the youth losing their innocence forever.
      From in the dreams encumbering, it would be the dreams descending on the death of innocence — from in the question of beliefs which are in the mind of the nightmares are the prayers spoken to the empty skies. From in time which is written and the nightmares in time are mine; shared from the sleep of thousands when the nightmare of all would see in the horrors after the storms of the nuclear winter. From it would be in the winds blowing in the cold of death looking on — the encumbering thoughts among the ranks marching and preparing for war. From this narrative written by the tainted mind of the one formerly called “the good reverend.”
      The one who sees the world in the pale shade of black and the patterns of peace are nonexistent. From it would be in the minds written in the bleeding glory after the tainted air from decay — from this would be the written horrors inside the shards of shrapnel; the thoughts written from the dreams encumbering during the times when sick in the barracks with an illness where it burns the lungs to breathe. From this would be the horrors waiting years in the mind and the nightmares asking why; that when it would be — that which is written asking to die, acid burning scars in the mind and the scars of the nightmares which are in the mind years to come.
      The questions of the thoughts written in the mind appearing in form of written pages in this journal, that it would be nothing the recruiter’s will never say in their pitch. That in the lies what would never come; in the mind of the one who is writing this would see the world through the eyes of the raven looking back as it is perched on the charred remains.
      From this the nightmares will lie for many years to come — encumbering among the thoughts who had abandoned their prayers and faith. Only in the nights that live forever which are seen in the bleeding; and when one tries to gasp for air after awakening — it would feel as one is breathing fire in their lungs. It would be in the memories of frozen hours and days that would never pass. In time which is seen in the mind, the incomplete nightmare which is written in the mind and the pages of one’s journal. In the horror will they ever awaken, giving one more reason in the nightmares writing out in the mind and the nightmare in the dreams which are looking back.
      One of the things which would be documented in the thoughts scarring themselves into history — that it would be in the thoughts writing out in the nightmare telling all who would see, that it would look in the eyes which had lost their faith. Questions asked from the dreams which are written — only never to have a single answer, and the prayers which are spoken have no answers; just questions over questions. Dreams written from the terrors in the mind after the weeks past — the flag of which is caught in flames after which is left in the ruins of a war torn nation and counties that had never seen peace. Encumbering thoughts which are written out as one sits in the chapel — as an usher looking on in the congregations sitting at the altar for many years; from the dreams which are written out can never be controlled as many are told about what have in their sleep are only a dream. Foreclosing thoughts waiting in the mind as I am writing out the things crawling out of the mind and on the various documented pages. The numbing emotions waiting inside of the dying world around them in the waking minds.
      In the never-ending thoughts waiting in the mind — that it would be drawn from the eyes of the one who was called “the good reverend” while rushing out the barracks with a gold Holy Bible giving to them by a friend of theirs in high school. This bible that I would describe was one giving to me by a friend of mine who was visiting the United States from Holland — it would be in the mind of the those who would be in the company barracks and walking with the other Religious Petty Officers, when it would be in the dreams and nightmares which are written that only bid the prayers to abolish them.
      It would be in the gathering thoughts in the mind of the former “Good Reverend” who later because the dark mind who is taking the words in the narrative into mere detail haunting in the reflections of time. From it would be written over the years and the letters sent out to my circles, they would never see the nightmares that are written here until now.
      From this would be written in the eyes of the former religious petty officer who was in the company — among them in the barracks who had a burning pain in the lungs, that it would be while the burning remained which is in the eyes of the nightmare that writes itself out. When in the dream the mind turns to dust and it would be when the soul would see them now. When in still one is told not to even conceive of the thoughts which are written now; that it would be as I am running my fingers across the keyboard that it would be hallow-eyed emotions that are in the horrors that would never conceive in a written page.
      In the documentation of the tormenting thoughts which are there — that in the eyes of the ones of prayer would never understand the horrors inside. That in time is the only one which is able to tell that when time is parallel. In the question of what is the nightmare’s narrative, only is written as an idea of a sick joke in the eyes of God. Not even in the prophets of years past could even take and write the nightmare’s recollection from the encumbering thoughts which are here and now in the eyes of the one who was once called “The Good Reverend” by his peers in the company. From the growth inside the encumbering nightmares which are in the mind of the one who used to be called “the good reverend.” In the morbid understanding — the questions would stand in mind as I would crawl into bed in the hotels or the campgrounds I would sometimes stay in; the thoughts would be there as one would have the dream about being thrown in the Des Plaines River. When it would be in the sinking fears which would be as the multitude are buried alive in the waters. In the frozen dreams which would be in the faith that I had walked away; in the mind of tormented thoughts which would be written according to the one who was once called “the good reverend.” When they would say a prayer for me — that when they would not see from what I would not believe. From this would be after the prayers that I had spoken over the years and they never were answered.
      It would be in the chapels that I had walked into over the years that I had never felt like I belonged — when they said that God would fill any voids in the mind; only that in the faith would be the emotions of emptiness.
      Descending further into the encumbering dreams — it would be in the faith that I wouldn’t believe for many years but the questions in the nightmares would just lead to that. Of which is written in the horror gathering slower in the dark encumbering. It is when the nightmares are written and the prayers cannot be spoken enough; in the minds who would see and are broken — when it in the nightmares are gone. Encumbering sleeping thoughts draw out the nightmares in the deepest mind and horrors deeper sinking into the reflection of the tormented soul. In the descending horror of the mind which it would be the personalized demons within the illness of the bastardized mind; I would take the recollection of the nightmare encumbering in the mind as I would bring out the thoughts as the fingers run feverously across the keyboard.
      It would not be close to words that could be described of the hours in the morning on September 11th, 2001, that could even be worded in the eyes of either Edgar Allen Poe or H.P. Lovecraft — namely in Lovecraft’s time which was during the years of the first world war. The acts of war could invoke thoughts of unimaginable and blasphemous horrors beyond anything that could be described in any work of fiction. That of I who would see the nightmares of the time that had been frozen in the back of the mind after all which is said and documented — it is only the genesis of what would be in the horrors encumbering. That in the dream one could still hear the dark stirring of echoes in the empty sky of the screams of those who could not be heard again. Those who once were able to speak — their life was removed from here, and knowing in the nightmares of the families who they left behind expecting them; it would only be written in their mind of what was in their loved ones last hours.
      Only in the encumbering echoes growing slowly in their blacker dreams which are in the mind as I am writing this, that in the days which I have not been able to muster a single day’s sleep which is would be in the mind. The demons in the psychological mind which are drawn out from the nightmares; from it would be when the horrors sleep with my dreams. That it would be the thoughts which encumber in the mind while I sat in the congregation; in the horrid thoughts which would sit in line — one by one which would lay in the horror inside the sleep which would plague the nightmares writing out as I would race across each keystroke. My thoughts would draw each black detail out in my mind as my white knuckled fingers would express each thought. It would be in the very thoughts which would be written according to the one who was once called “the good reverend.” Of the morbid visions and nightmarish revelations which come to the mind as this narrative is written out — no one can even begin to describe the unspeakable and blasphemous horrors which had unfolded beyond anything which is in the imagination of a troubled mind.
      From this would be in the mind of the patterns seen inside — that would drawn from the blacker eyes looking on as the birds perched on the headstones of the countless who are gone. In this which is written of the mind — that it would be seen in the horrors through the eyes of the one who they did call “the good reverend.” In time when it is written, all the nightmares encumbering in the blacker emotions of the human soul — all the questions of the waiting, in the words that not even God can even describe. From the words looking in — from it would be the closing horrors waiting that would never release itself; our words left in emptiness and the faith that had all the answers once before has none now. From this would be — the questions which leave themselves in the mind; all who would close their eyes which would be seen in the sleep encumbering. It would be in the emotional distress of the illness which surrounds the body during the time in form of weeks that had passed — only in the blacker sun looking back as the funerals would only begin to be seen in the time which would only wait.


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