Part 1: The Hill, the Knife, and the Fight to Stay Alive (Decoding Sarlon’s Dreams)

✨ Content is free—but crows like snacks.

Part 1 (of 9): Me and a crowbar vs. my husband’s dreams. These aren’t just dreams. They’re survival maps, old messes, and weird little miracles. It’s gonna hurt. It’s gonna heal. It’s gonna get real weird. Buckle up.

First Dream: The Hill and the Knife.

Real Life Context:

November 2022.
Location: The Rosetta Motel, where the “amenities” included black mold, rats in the walls, and a vague hope that maybe the ceiling wouldn’t fall on your head tonight.

Sarlon, me (Loui), and our unborn son Truman were stuffed inside a motel room the size of a shoebox, playing survival on Nightmare Mode.

A few months before this?
We were living it up — city life, luxury life, everything looking shiny.

Then the universe basically said:

“Wouldn’t it be funny if we wrecked all of that?”

And they did.
Eviction.
Collapse.
Pregnancy.
Pain.
Dreams crashing like cheap carnival rides.

This dream showed up right when it felt like the walls were made of paper, and every neighbor sounded like they were auditioning for an episode of COPS.

Perfect timing for a good old-fashioned psychic knife fight.

Full Dream Entry:

Carter, Bryce, and I are sitting on a grassy hill. I point out a steep part that looks dangerous.

• Then Carter and Bryce — like emotionally stunted gladiators — turn on me and try to shove me off the cliff.

• They chase me around, into and out of my apartment.

• I grab an acoustic guitar (weapon of choice for soft boys) and smash Carter over the head.

• He’s dazed, but of course he keeps coming.

• Carter starts singing: "It only turned out to be part of a dream, part of a dream, part of a dream." (Rude.)

• They keep chasing me, so I grab a kitchen knife — but I only swing the blunt side.

• Bryce has a knife too, but honestly? I'm not worried.

• Eventually they leave.

• I’m refilling a camel pack (because hydration is survival), and a blonde lady loans me a kit.

• My father and Matthew show up. Dad tries to guilt-trip me into DJing a gig Cara Pierce set up for Lon Milo Duquette.

• I’m supposed to spin Spanish music. I think: Absolutely not.

• Meanwhile, people are lining up outside to tightrope walk in front of a crowd.

• A kid asks my dad for some money. Dad hands him a quarter like it's still the Great Depression.

• Somehow, I end up driving a heavy lady home in my turbo-repaired Eclipse — except her emotional weight turns my turbo into a tricycle.

The End. No applause. No encore.

Surface Level Decode (a.k.a. “Welcome to Symbolism Hell”):

Hill: The ground you thought was safe but was actually a slippery nightmare.
Carter & Bryce: Ghosts of who you used to be.
Guitar Smash: Creativity used as a weapon. (Respect.)
Knife: Your new boundaries. (Still figuring it out.)
Camel Pack: Emergency soul fuel.
DJ Gig: Old guilt tricks trying to drag you back into other people’s messes.
Tightrope Walkers: Society pretending they're balanced. (They’re not.)
Quarter Exchange: Generational brainworms. ("Be grateful for scraps, kid.")
Heavy Passenger: Dead weight that isn’t yours to carry anymore.

Deep Psychological Dissection (a.k.a. Why This Hurts and Why It Matters):

You weren’t just fighting Carter and Bryce.
You were fighting the parts of yourself that still believed:

"If I suffer enough, they'll love me."

You didn’t want to hurt them.
You didn’t even really want to fight them.
You just wanted them to stop dragging you back down a hill you nearly died climbing.

(spoiler alert)
They didn’t stop.
They never do.
That's why you fought with the blunt side of the knife:
You fought, but you didn’t lose your heart.

You’re not a destroyer.
You’re a survivor who builds wings out of broken bones.

Mythic Read (a.k.a. Welcome to Crow School, Kid):

This dream was your real-life boss fight:

• Fake friends? Had to go.

• Fake loyalty traps? Had to burn.

• Fake "you owe us" guilt games? Had to die.

Not with rage.
Not with cruelty.
With sacred, exhausted clarity.

You didn’t just survive a life collapse.
You survived your old programming — the one that said survival only counted if you suffered enough to earn it.

Not anymore.

Now survival means living your own life.
No more tightropes. No more scraps.

Sacred Salvage (What You Kept):

• Your hydration (literal and soul-level).

• Your refusal to bleed for a fake crowd.

• Your instincts to build a real life without selling yourself out.

(Not bad for a guy with a blunt knife and a half-full camel pack.)

Patterns Already Showing Up:

🛠️ Vehicles = Freedom
🛠️ Ghost friends = Old pieces of you trying to pull you back
🛠️ Creativity = Your shield and sword
🛠️ Camel pack = Staying fueled during collapse
🛠️ Tightropes = Fake survival games
🛠️ Heavy weight = Emotional junk you don’t need anymore

Feather Note to Past Sarlon:

You didn’t lose them.
They lost you the moment you chose to live.

Your hands weren't made to shove people off cliffs.
They were made to build new worlds — ones nobody could kick you out of.

💔 What pain or struggle is this blog addressing?

• Surviving real-life collapse (housing, health, identity)

• Losing old friends, old selves, and fake stability

• Fighting guilt, obligation, and invisible emotional debts

• Finding your way out of survival mode when the world falls apart

🔮 What’s the sacred transformation or takeaway?
Readers realize survival doesn’t have to look perfect.
It doesn’t have to win applause.
It just has to be real — and the sacred victory is choosing to keep breathing and building even when everything else burns down.
You’re not broken for struggling — you’re powerful for surviving it.

🪶 Next up:

The Disappearing Gold Sedan
(a.k.a. The emotional equivalent of waking up to find someone stole your spine and left you a participation trophy.)