daysandhours:

Psychoanalyze: Stiles + Nightmares

You’re in class when you first notice the soil. It’s rich and dark at your feet– you must have dragged it in with you from outside. You open your book and you blink hard because the words are dripping down the page, a river of language that doesn’t make sense. (That’s when the pain begins). It starts in your ribs, an ache deep in your lungs and you can feel roots climbing through your throat– there’s earth in your mouth and your eyes and you can’t breathe, you can’t see, and suddenly you’re in a grove of trees with the Nemeton silent and waiting in your peripheral, a harbinger of what is to come. That’s when you realize: this is a dream. And you need to wake up.

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