Nightmare

So I have to record last night's dream because it was just completely bizarre.

In the dream I'm standing outside of my house, not my current house but the one I grew up in as a child, and for some reason the streets felt..dirty. Like the neighborhood itself looked very bland and grey. There were a sporadic bustle of people every which way I looked, but the street wasn't crowded, they were sticking to the sidewalks. You could tell they were loud and obnoxious by their mannerisms and behaviors but they were all mute to my ears. The whole look and feel reminded me of an old early 20th century photograph with an eerie apocalypse aftermath. I know that sounds really strange. Anyways a UPS truck pulls up and a delivery man throws a package at my feet. He immediately drives off in a hurry, wheels screeching against the pavement.

Now in real life let me tell you I am currently expecting a package from Phil of all my belongings that still reside at his house, before the breakup happened. I'm supposed to get it any day now I guess.

Anyways, the box doesn't look how I thought it would at all. There were only a few little things I left behind, so naturally you'd think it would be small, but it's huge and in the shape of a rectangular-somewhat square flat skinny box. The kind you would imagine a large frame or picture would be in. The box is beaten up, with dirt and torn on one side, somewhat exposed, and written on a white piece of paper taped to the front says this in black scratchy handwritting: "I'm sorry. [You] or [It] hurt(s) me too." I can't remember exactly how I read it, it was either/or as far as the message went.

So I am obviously upset, confused, I rip the tear larger to open the box and it's my Zombie Napoleon painting I made for him, something I wasn't expecting to get back or want back because I wanted him to have it. The other things I was expecting that are mine are not in the box, and what's even worse is the painting is destroyed. It looks nothing like how I originally painted it. Layers and layers of paint have been removed and the canvas is thin, becoming thinner at the touch the longer I hold it until it feels like a piece of paper. Each layer of paint becomes one thin piece of paper until the entire thing feels like a stack, just one big mess of paint and a distorted face. The frame that I bought for the painting is gone as well, and I'm thinking "Why on earth would he keep the frame but throw away the painting?" The frame itself was $285 when I paid for it; pretty expensive. I start to think he may have kept it for some other selfish use. So I'm completely distressed and start to walk back to the house, taking the torn box and the ruined Zombie Napoleon painting with me.

When I get into my house, it isn't my house at all. It's a place I've never seen before, nothing looks familiar. The entire thing is a wreck, something you would see off a hoarders reality tv show. There is junk everywhere and the junk isn't even mine. There is barely room to walk. The walls are thin burnt brown panels, like something from the '70's, and the couch in the room is an ugly off-white yellow with a scratchy, uncomfortable material. I walk down these iron-barred skinny stairs into this front room and behind me someone calls for me trying to grab my attention. I turn around and it's one of Phil's friends, which I'll just call her nameless. So nameless runs desperately down the stairs to give me some sort of small packet or envelope. It's purple and has white writing with a green border on the lettering but I can't make out or understand what it says. She tells me she is sorry Phil destroyed the painting but can't tell me why, I think she may be as clueless as I am as far as how he feels. She feels bad and tells me to take the packet, that I will feel much better. I'm assuming there are pills inside but I don't know for sure and she chooses not to tell me. Throughout this whole craziness I somehow am still in absolute shock. I'm not crying, I'm not angry, I'm just thinking what in the fucking world is going on? So then I tell nameless, no, I am going to call Phil and we are going to figure this out. And that's when I do start to get really mad he ruined the painting and I want to know fucking why. I made that from the heart, just for him, why would he do that? But still, I'm thinking rationally, I'm not losing it just yet. And nameless is telling me no, he is hurting too much and she doesn't think it's a good idea, to just leave it and him alone, but I just scream back at her "I'm hurting too! More than he is! He did this to me! He left me!" And I am just ready to drive right over to his house and get in his face, so I can make sense of all of this.

And then I wake up.

Seriously, what the fuck.