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I've Been Dreaming About Serial Killers
by Alexandra Pereira
2007-04-16 10:48:21
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From Hannibal in The Silence of the Lambs to Jack the Ripper wandering about in London’s thick fog (so thick, one can cut it with a knife), to a rapist who is also a serial killer and whose same hands have (freak thought…) both undressed and strangled people – this whole circus of monstrosities has been unpleasantly and shockingly defiling through my asleep mind, steam-dancing in my last few nights’ Easter dreams (well, nightmares…), which should be overloaded with chocolate bunnies, gigantic candy eggs and innocent happy-family belonging feelings instead.

Who knows the caprices of the human mind, and by which tortuous means and mistakes we make sense out of the awaken fragments of life which remain in a hidden part of our brains just waiting for the night to fall, so they can torment one…

Now seriously, I’ve just discovered recently that dreaming is a really stupid activity, and the proof for that is: there’s no point about dreaming about serial killers – unless you are trying to collaborate with Europol or you are part of the C.S.I. series cast; if you are somehow trying to solve a case and arrest a murderer it can be useful, if you try to protect yourself from an assassin, then it is clever to dream with one (or several). Only then. Otherwise, it will only make anxiety pop-up uselessly in your daily routines and you will wake up sweating and trembling (which is not comfortable), plus you’ll be drowned in a truly messed bad humor for the rest of your holy day.

“What do these people have to do with me, why are they still out there killing and not in prison?”. Funnily, one can be incredibly lucid (and even preserve a summarized notion of the ridiculous or a minimum critical sense) while “watching” his/her own dreams happen. Thank God. Or the Devil. Or both. Who knows.

I profoundly believe that God can be a great son-of-a-bitch sometimes. My happy mämmi Easter, where are you? There’s no way I can feel guilty for this, I haven’t been reading H. P. Lovecraft for ages, nor watching horror movies nor buying butcher meat lately nor anything (…especially "nor anything"). Still, in the place of a dancing sun I get a horrible dark night, full of moonlights’ dizzying drizzle and complex urban trails to follow while chasing The Guilty One.

Besides, there is the repugnant and terrifying nature of these creatures I search for, which are not humans anymore nor animals yet (they lack some “animal innocence” for that…), but monsters, brutal bloody beasts or sticky nasty monsters I don’t want to get along with. They are in my mind still. Oh, that’s awful!

Could it be the Easter morbidity playing with my spirit – one dead Messias always supposes several killers to keep track of his alive actions and build him a deadly trap. But then, just one dead (even if an important one like... ahhh... let's say Jesus Christ) doesn’t make the “serial” adjective valid nor serious, does it? Why then to convoke so many murderers to a single night, in one or distinct dreams apparitions, and just because it's now that time of the year when Jesus should be dead and buried, and then (who can understand them) alive again? I'm not even a Catholic and I don't dream with knives, wounds and cuttings when that time of the month comes either... Makes no sense to me. I understand witches fly at Easter, but serial killers? Wow, that's way too dreamy!

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Sand2007-04-18 19:20:12
From my personal point of view killing anything from a blue whale down to that barely visible guy who is struggling mightily to merely work his way across my book page is something to be avoided. But some people kill for a living or for a hobby. I've seen them on the sides of roads brandishing their shotguns sporting red jackets. What the hell. If it's people, join the army. There's no accounting for taste.

Alexandra Pereira2007-04-20 01:27:19
Yes, of course, people... can one call them that? The word "people" comprises a wide range of contradictory characteristics and obeys to an extravagant taxonomy system. What an undefinable word. Of course we can call them that - sometimes we hesitate, though.

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