Dead of Night (1945) | dir. Alberto Cavalcanti, Charles Crichton, Robert Hamer and Basil Dearden
We’re having drinks. You break those glasses of yours, and then, quite suddenly, the room goes dark. And then, Foley, you say something, something about the death of a man I’ve never heard of. And that’s where my dream becomes a nightmare. A nightmare of horror. I feel my will power draining away. I feel I’m in the grip of a force that’s driving me towards something unspeakably evil.
sometimes adhd feels like those dreams where you’re aware it’s a dream but you still don’t have any control over it. you just kinda sit there watching things play out, knowing what should be happening and knowing what you should be doing to put that into effect but you can’t and that’s the worst part.
and all the dreams become nightmares. and people say, “but if you’re lucid in your dreams then why don’t you just change your dreams to make them happy?” and it seems so simple and you wonder if maybe you’re just not trying hard enough. but every night the same thing happens and you wonder if it’s just going to be like this forever.
You hurt me,
But it’s different this time.
I’m not yelling at you or asking who she is or drinking myself unconscious.
I’m just laying in bed thinking about the way you used to look at me, when I thought it was just you and me.
My dreams have become nothing but nightmares, and you’re the starring role.
I might wake up every night shaking but at least I still get to see you.
Even when I’m awake I keep seeing you kiss her,
And I can’t turn away when it’s stuck in my own head.
It stings more and more each time.
It’s a quiet kind of hurting, a lonely kind of hurting, a God-I-knew-this-would-happen kind of hurting,
But the pain isn’t the worst part.
The worst part is that I’m stuck in this cycle of hating you and then pretending that I don’t care about you and then wishing that I’d never met you,
But I always come back to missing you.
History is not a single line but a double helix. The structure of information in our cells is also the archetypal structure of information in the twistings and turnings of the species through time. What starts out in one position ends up in its opposite, and the dream of liberation becomes the nightmare of recollectivization.
William Irwin Thompson, Darkness and Scattered Light
A little less than a thousand years ago, Princess Celestia realized with acute horror that there was another one of her younger sister’s duties that could not be left untended to.
So busy she had been with raising and lowering the sun and moon that she had failed to realize that her subjects’ slumber was agitated. All of their doubts and worries had continued to build up in them, and with no one to help guide them in their sleep, their dreams had become tainted by nightmares.
Frantic with worry, she entered the abandoned Castle of the Two Sisters, seeking help from Princess Luna’s personal spell books.
While there was no replacement for the Princess of the Night, who could enter and jump between pony’s dreams at will, there was a solution that would have to work. She would make it work– and work it did.
She shaped a construct of sand and soft feelings, bound together by her magic into the form of a mare. One who could travel across the land at night, soothing nightmares and leaving pleasant dreams in her wake. No pony would receive kind words of comfort and personal guidance, but her graceful song and enchanting dreams would insure that Princess Celestia’s subjects did not succumb to despair in a world where sleeping brought only sadness.
Nearly a thousand years later the magic of every pony who believes in the Sand Mare has kept the construct functioning, and has even granted it a life of her own.
But there are no more ponies to help now that Princess Luna has returned.
So she sings sad songs in the night, wistful for the time when she was needed so completely, but taking comfort in the fact that her Highness can help so much more than she ever could.
She always says she craves affection but the moment she gets it, she doesn’t know what to do with it. She dreams about the feeling of being held, being told she is wanted, but when someone comes along who wants to hold her, who tells her just how wanted she is, suddenly that dream becomes a nightmare. The touch of their embrace stings like poison and the sound of their admiration sends shivers down her spine. And after this cycle repeats itself countless times, the truth finally reveals itself.
She doesn’t crave love, she is already loved.
She craves the idea of an intimacy that she is told she is supposed to want.
Fairy Tail is a tale of sorrow. It’s childhood dreams becoming broken and shattered nightmares. It’s loss of parents and of innocence. It’s the one you love dying, and there’s nothing you can do. It’s realizing….you aren’t strong enough.
Fairy Tail is bravery. It’s standing up for those who are being kicked while already down. For the people criticized and damned when they did no wrong. It’s wiping away your tears and seeing the world before you. It’s realizing….you CAN become stronger. You have no limit.
Fairy Tail is mercy. It’s kindness. It’s a gentle smile that turns the world upside down. It’s an event. It’s a miracle. It’s neverending.