Troy is giving some people a tour of a house; perhaps we live in it. He stops at the last room, where Van is naked on one bed with Matt, and on a further bed another couple – or at least the woman – is naked, too. Rather than turning back and ending the tour, Troy waits, and we all watch awkwardly as the women scramble to put on their clothing just so the tour can continue.

I am of the feeling that there are possessions which lie beneath the surface that are eating away at me. They are ostensibly minor but manifest in he and I being in mid-conversation until she comes along and then him just stopping ours to instead begin one with her. Or they manifest in he and I holding hands and then him throwing mine down in a flurry to instead approach her. Or they manifest in the dedication with which he responds to her every tiny tragedy with such attention – whether it be negative or positive, but still with such a degree of rapt awareness – whereas with me, he twice notably has failed to ask questions and twice offered to do a calming meditation together only to fall asleep immediately, instead increasing the nervous tension previously attempting to decrease. The negative attention towards her seems just as intense as the positive attention: explosive, possessive, all-encompassing. He seems to think it is healthy in its negativity, that it is breaking a cycle of putting up with her tragedies, but in fact it is perhaps even more consuming, for it is not breaking any cycle; it is merely changing it into a different form – one that looks as though a child is lashing out and getting revenge on past grievances without knowing just why, though the child retains the intensity of his pervasive emotion. The dream, I feel, is spotlighting that sentiment of my waiting upon transcendence above a closed system of habits ultimately more important and embedded than any newly introduced species such as myself might be. It’s as though there can be another life, but it is still confused, still not powerful enough to have him refrain from saying words to the former lover like, “I will always love you,” in the presence of me, because again the past sentiment has more urgency than any of the urgencies of the present time. These lines, these actions, he brushes under the rug, scoffing to say that declarations of love are merely the words of drugs or friendly sentiments – but they are more than that. Below, they are known as truth; above, they manifest as possession, as a lack of truly letting go, as a sequence of ongoing events that have begun and continue, with both in its self-perpetuating qualities and the amplification of my growing self-consciousness mutually working to pave a road to ruin.

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