Snippets from My Dream Journal


Words :

Jordi Ng

Photos:

Jordi Ng

Since I was little, I’ve thought there was something wrong with the way I dreamt. While other kids dreamt of first kisses and finding themselves nude in class, I dreamt of giant slugs and killing machines. I woke up chilled to the bone, praying the fiends wouldn’t come back to haunt me another night. But they did, they always did; they came in waves and they came in technicolor and they came in anger. And so I began to write, perhaps to quell their psychic hold on me.

I wrote of the carnivorous earthworms, the scheming pink dwarves, and the three-headed mother who once loved her daughter so much she ate her soul—chewing conscientiously and washing it down with a glass of bourbon. I wrote about the ones I couldn’t forget—those that paralyzed me even after I awoke. In writing I thought that I could make sense of it all. But the more I wrote, the more I questioned whether dreams allowed themselves to be rationalized. They only lent themselves to be the objects that are feared—objects to be confronted.

Today, at 19, I wish I could say that I can now look at my dreams with admiration for their lawless exploits and subversive brilliance. But the truth is that I’m still scared. I think I will always be. The following illustration essay is a visual representation of some of the wackiest visions that have accompanied my creative and personal growth—one last-ditch attempt to confront the specters of my psychosis.