Dream Journal Ultimate
Date: 11/18/2025
By amandalyle
Michael Sealey’s honey-soaked vocal cords seep through the holes in my earbuds like warm caramel, oozing directly into the gullies of my soul. Oh, Michael. That enchanted baritone. If a voice could undress someone, his would peel me like a nectarine. He guides me deeper, deeper down, deeper still, and — god help me — I start feeling a little… spiritually inspired. Let’s call it that. Purely spiritual. I slip my hand into my underwear to “massage my soul,” and oh boy, does it work. A full-body chakra alignment. Just as I’m kneading my sacred chakra… “MUM!” My son’s voice cuts through the dream like a grenade wrapped in parental responsibility. I jerk upright, scrambling in the darkness for the decency that has clearly fled the building. But something’s wrong. My sheets aren’t beneath me. My room isn’t around me. I’m in a cinema. A hundred faces swing my way like judgmental searchlights. The massive screen glows above me, illuminating my extremely compromised hand placement. “Utterly disgraceful,” a woman hisses. “There are children in here,” another adds. Fantastic. Wanking off in a cinema — just what my résumé needed. My skin prickles. I want to crawl inside a popcorn kernel and die quietly. Then the screen goes black. Suddenly, I’m on a community worksite, knee-deep in weeds because apparently my subconscious thinks I need character-building. Maybe It has a point. Maybe it’s just an arsehole. Nothing says “valued citizen” like dirt under your nails and back pain. A shirtless man — shirtless in winter — lays bricks beside me like he’s posing for a charity calendar nobody asked for. He’s flexing with the confidence of a man who believes his reflection is endangered and must be admired at every opportunity. He catches me glancing. “Wanna a piece of this?” he says, patting his ab like he’s trying to summon applause. “I’m good,” I reply bluntly, ripping a weed from the earth like it’s his head and I’m yanking it off. A site manager stomps over in hi-vis and a hardhat. “Is this your drawing?” they ask, thrusting a wrinkled doodle into my face. I’m ready to deny all knowledge. It looks like it was drawn by a sedated squirrel using its non-dominant paw. But then I see the name. Mrs Pickles. Favourite teacher of all time. A name that deserved applause. A woman who once made me feel like my shy little voice mattered. Mr Cocky Builder snatches the drawing, laughs, scrunches it into a ball. “You won’t be needing this shit,” he says, tossing it into the rubble. I want to rhino-charge his ego straight into extinction. I want to resurrect Mrs Pickles solely to help her smack him with a ruler. Instead, I swallow the rage like a vitamin the size of a brick and return to my weeds. These weeds won’t brutally murder themselves. Minutes later, I look up and — of course — he’s built an entire house. A whole house. People applaud like he’s reinvented the concept of walls. “A bit much,” I mutter. “These new builds are the Ikea flatpacks of architecture. Tap them wrong and the whole thing confesses its sins.” He’s lapping up the attention, ego juicing through his veins like cheap pre-workout. Where’s my applause? I’ve uprooted enough weeds to single-handedly end photosynthesis. The earth beneath my feet yawns open and swallows me whole. Suddenly I’m cycling up a hill. My least favourite pastime. A punishment invented by someone who hated joy. Sweat drips. Breath ragged. Legs screaming. Someone breezes past on a motorised scooter. “You can do it!” they shout cheerfully. It’s him. Of course. Mr Cocky. Zooming uphill without even breaking a sweat. His ego flaps behind him like a cape stitched from other people's insecurities. “Don’t fall on a spike and die,” I wheeze under my breath. Not a threat. Just a little dream seasoning. At the top, his wife awaits, holding the cutest Pomeranian I’ve ever seen. I reach out, but she pulls the fluffy cloud away, eyes dropping to my hands. I look down. They’re filthy. Black under the nails, mud embedded in my palms like I’ve clawed my way out from the underworld. Shame crawls over me, thick and absolute. I shove my hands into my pockets and walk away, abandoning the bike like an unwanted ex. When I finally reach the top, a shape lies in the road. Slumped. Still. Impaled by a massive, bloody spike. “Oh dear god.” I whisper, stepping closer. It’s him. Mr Cocky. Breath thin. Ego leaking out like helium from a deflating balloon. I stand over him, watching the last puff of superiority hiss out of him. “Well,” I say, voice quiet and utterly unbothered. “It’s about time somebody deflated that ego.”