Sweet Dreams are made of this

Sometimes I wake up feeling that I’d had the strangest dream. But I can never remember it fully, and always end up piecing random sounds and images together to complete the jigsaw. The result is never satisfying; it always feels like some wild tale forcefully conjured by me, and seldom makes sense. And it always leaves me feeling restless, as if the dream had contained the key to my future. That if I were able to recall and interpret that one dream correctly, I would have realized my destiny.
This one time, I dreamt that I was being chased by crows, a dark, flapping mass threatening to engulf me. I was running so fast that my surroundings had become a colorful blur, yet they were able to arrest my attention. Despite the mayhem, I could sense that some colors were bringing warmth with them while others would chill my very core. Some colors were repeating themselves, while others I would never see again. Strangely enough, the whole scene made me feel nostalgic, as if… as if I was running through time.
The mass, meanwhile, was slowly closing in on me, the flapping of wings growing louder and louder as the previously vast distance between us shrunk. Suddenly the sound of a thunderous clap filled the air, and in a flash the crows were on me. They were only going for my eyes, clawing and pecking and scratching at them until all that were left of them were two dark, burning cavities. After they had scratched the last bit of flesh out, they withdrew silently, the searing pain they had left me with being the only evidence of the encounter.
I lay motionless on that spot for quite some time. Even though I was stationary now, the world around me remained a colorful blur, only now the colors were stationary like me. The blood pouring out of my eyes was gathering around me, and some time later, I was lying in a puddle of it. In that moment of acute pain and misery, I suddenly remembered that I had never smelt blood, and began to have the strongest urge to smell mine. After failing to reason with myself, I slowly sat up, raised both hands to my face and ran them across my empty sockets. But when I finally lowered them to my nose, it was not blood that I smelt. It was ink. My eyes were bleeding ink.
Unlike other times, I know what this dream means, what it’s trying to tell me. Yet I can’t make myself do anything about it, for in my heart, I know that it has nothing to do with destiny or my future. That it’s just some wild tale forcefully conjured by me in my state of restlessness.
