Oddly enough I was riding a bicycle down an isolated residential street towards a house where a murderer was living. Upon entering the house, I peered into one of the bedrooms and saw a girl laying on the ground tied up. She had long luscious brown hair. In the side of her mouth there was an IV sticking out and blood dripping down. We made eye contact and I could feel her fear. I was on a mission though. I was looking for a man. I left her there and walked around the hallway.
There was no one else there. The man I was looking for was gone. Then I questioned my motives for going there in the first place. Weird that I would venture alone into a known murder’s home. I left the hallway and walked into the kitchen. There was nothing there so I turned back down the hall to exit the house. The door of the room where the girl was flung open and 2 rather large men stood inside of it. Before I had time to think. The man on the left lifted his hand and pulled the trigger on his gun three times. I was dead.
…and as dreams often make no sense. I ended up being the narrator of a story I was writing. I was at a writer’s block and I didn’t know what to do with the characters. I was an old, fat, balding, drunk guy sitting alone in my basement.
Seriously!? How messed up is that…
The alarm clock woke me up and I was happy to find myself cozy in bed. Where else could the whole writing thing come from? I love the storyline of Alan Wake.