surrounded by echoes of an annoying-but-poisonously-wistful inescapable past, i didnt want to literally re-live this
concede sincere identity or sow pointless relational self-sabotage
vaguely/partially false dichotomy but the fickle dramatized impression of a self-destructive ultimatum remains when i do happen to value those things
i guess it gives more dream-material to play with or re-examine, that could be fun
i still the one with that cult leader where he zip-collared me (idk how to describe the details of how this mechanically worked) and it triggered and its metal wiry zipper-prongs bore deep into me while crushing my trachea because i didnt give a good enough devotee performance even though dreamself had been fawning grossly hard
it was funny and i kinda fixated on him with great sincerity (i also assume the thin wispy pale mysterious archetype won some points), and i probably attached to something about my relationship with that oppressive atmosphere and these people in these neat little places (bathroom-like poolrooms-like mazes, concrete halls and ambiguous walls of aquarium-tank glass)... other fictional cultists that resided throughout these places include a scientist with a clipboard and some indistinct figures at the periphery, indifferent to the leader walking in with this soon-to-be-collared mess of a non-person following behind, that response from them seemed quite funny
did not appreciate the pain and suffocation in the moment but savory dream-thrills tended to retroactively make up for things even during more real consequences (sudden and momentary violent muscle spasms, or sore locked-down muscle paralysis where it takes immense effort to yank a limb to life)
but when its so intoxicating idrk how to respond but to be fascinated
i get some of this sense of anticipatory intoxication from these recent real-life contexts
not remotely the same but the contexts and subsequent feelings i gather from them draw a lot of associations in common