Tag Archives: Dreams

A Dream Journal Excerpt – My First Sleep Paralysis

I don’t remember any particular sound except for silence.

I don’t even remember the sound of my feet tapping across the floor, although I do remember the floor was a very strange color — like that of dried blood. The walls were white cream and the lights yellow, and all was bathed in a sickening light. In the walls themselves there were no windows, although there were half-moon alcoves peppered throughout the room. They seemed to be a place of rest for those who happened to be wandering about the sick room, which was more of a long hallway than a proper room. I don’t recall seeing any beds, but there was a large space in the middle that wrapped around a desk. There were no nurses or doctors.

Emptiness and quiet.

It was then the realization that this was a place for the infirm — the dying — with the mixture of scents from the sweet, sterile air and the institutional lighting began to frighten me, and I needed to get out of there. I left the sick room, and I remember not much of what else happened of significance that day, except for that afternoon.

I was on the back porch of the second story of the building. There was a white fence surrounding it. I was sitting with a friend who I can’t remember the face or the name. Her hair was black and it was coiled, her skin dark brown, and she was wearing overalls. We were reminiscing about the tour we’d taken earlier that day inside the building.

Inside, there was a large room that served as a conference room. There, we had learned that the man who had founded the very place — a place filled with people who may have well been invisible — had passed away. The time he’d passed wasn’t certain, but it had been a good while ago. In his possession, at the time when he was alive, he’d had a very valuable collection of paintings. This artwork was very abstract, a few of the pictures almost frightening and Hellish.

This collection was, very possibly, haunted by something that did not want the memory of the collector to be remembered. Why this being wouldn’t want the man to be remembered I couldn’t figure out. In fact, I was actually quite skeptical when I’d first heard of it. Interestingly enough, I can’t even remember who told me. I only recall being the single presence in the room. There may have been one other — possibly a man.

I should have taken warning, but I had been a foolish skeptic, and I continued to view these paintings in all of their strangeness. I found them beautiful in their grotesquery because I also felt my mind was dark and grotesque. The images spoke to me in ways I felt only I could understand, and in ways that only this man who had created such a strange place could understand as well. It was saddening that he was gone because I’m sure I could have had many great conversations with him.

Later, as I sat on the balcony with my friend — at least, I called her a friend — we’d set up an easel and she was painting. I wasn’t quite sure what she was painting because she wasn’t looking at anything but leaves; it’s all there was in front of us. Trees with those strange oval-shaped leaves and the ferns that rose higher than the building itself.

We were talking about the strange paintings and the haunt, itself. No one had known what it looked like, but it was known to be nightmarish in appearance. It was then that I realized a noise and it was in the ferns. I listened closely, and I turned to my friend to ask if she’d noticed. She looked at me, seemingly nonplussed, but she had heard something as well. She figured it was only the wind or it was just my mind playing tricks on me as my mind tended to do.

I did discover it was something, and the something was not much of a something at all.

Imagine, if you can, something staring through the bars of that fence adorned in black, its head hooded, and its face wasn’t a face at all, but that of a cow’s skull. Although this skull did have soulless eyes, it was expressive. The bone was very organic and ancient, and it had markings from age. I wasn’t even sure it had any sort of physical body at all.

My friend had gone into hiding when I searched for her. We’d run, but I began to doubt myself. I was crazy, but not so far gone that I would hallucinate something so vividly. It hadn’t helped matters that I didn’t see it for a while after that. It just disappeared.

I was in a large kitchen much later that night, and it was dark as pitch. There were small lights coming in through the windows, and they seemed like street lamps, although there were no streets or lamps on the small island. There was only a large hill through the windows that led down to the ferns, and then where they met the water that surrounded the place.

It was a community kitchen, tiled the same as the sick room beneath it. There were large counters, some in a circular pattern with a stove in the center, some just there holding various kitchen tools and cutlery and appliances. There were no tables nor a dining room. It was all clearest in my mind because that’s where it happened again.

Something was standing there, and I don’t know why, but I had gone to it. I was certain it was male. I felt a pull toward it, and I sunk to my knees and placed my hands on its hips, and when I looked up I saw nothing but darkness.


I rose to my feet and ran. I ran throughout hallway after hallway — I can’t even say what it was anymore. Every door would open only to lead to another hallway that would fade off into darkness. I was trapped. I knew I couldn’t follow the darkness because it would only end up badly for me in the end. Instead, I turned around to face the thing again.

There’s much more to this dream that I’ll be revising later. This is just a small part of it, and doesn’t include the afterward when I described my fight with twilight and awake, and the dark being which I felt a strong allure to that held me down, threatening to never let me wake up again. This was the first sleep paralysis experience I ever remember having, and it happened back in January of 2015 if I dated it right. I plan to fix up a lot of my dream journal entries and compile them into a book of their own.

©2019 Shane Blackheart


A positive absence, for once!

When I am absent, it’s usually due to a multitude of emotions destroying me from the inside out. I can’t manage more than the videos I barely take in on my favorite Youtube channels, and my creative drive has taken a vacation abroad for an indeterminable amount of time. Things have been different this time around, though.

My mind has been more stable since trying the injectable form of testosterone over the gel to get my transition going again. It had been hell during my first try with the injections, and since I’ve covered all of that elsewhere on this blog, I won’t get into it here. Long story short, it seems like a different mixture is what was needed. My mood swings, while still there in the background, have dimmed significantly. I didn’t expect this to cure my bipolar episodes or the interpersonal problems I have with my borderline personality disorder, but it has been much easier to calm myself as well as stand up for myself when I need to. I’ve had this fire within me that refuses to let me take shit from anyone. This isn’t a bad thing for someone like me, who was more likely to sit by silently while verbal abuse or any other kind of bad thing would happen. To be able to speak up when I need to has been a great change for me.


Along with all of this, I’ve pulled my creativity back from its extended vacation. My writing is important to me again and I’ve made it my job, or at least, I’m treating it like one until I can officially call it that. I’ve become more involved in writing communities online and am getting braver about asking for critiques, and I am learning to give them. I have learned so much within the last week about publishing, editing, and I’ve gotten great advice from editors and published authors alike on how to navigate all of this. It was something I desperately needed, but I couldn’t possibly accomplish it while I remained in my little bubble of self-hatred.

Yesterday, I finished editing and looking over the fifth draft of a novella. I had finished writing it during the summer of 2015 during a manic episode while I was homeless, and it was the first book I’d written that I saw to completion. Although it was riddled with poor grammar and my sentence structure was just as poor at best, I was proud of it. Over the past few days, I went and I fixed the earlier chapters that had been started years ago. It was something I began and left to sit, unable to finish like I’d done with so many. I fixed the wording, added new things and explained others, and poured more emotion into the original draft than was originally there. After all of this and splitting it into chapters, I feel like I have a second book ready to send out.

I’m in contact with an editor or two, one of which I am certain I want to do the job for my longer book that I’d like to publish first. Hopefully I can build up a working relationship with them for my future projects. Having that thought alone makes my nerves jump in all of the best ways.

I’m no stranger to anxiety. I’ve seen it in its worst form and it’s left me sickly and bedridden. (I wrote about that here: From My Memoir – Two Years that Changed the Rest of My Life and I recorded it with Byleth and the others here.) To finally understand that there is good anxiety and be able to feel it is freeing for me. It feels the same in all of the physical sensations, but there is a different emotion attached. It’s not fear, but anticipation.


If you want something bad enough, it will happen. I’ve been wanting the title ‘author’ officially for many years. I can only hope that my want and need for this is bad enough to make it all happen.