I do not know how long it has been since my last entry, but much happened in a haze. I feel like a drunk who has awoken from a binge, with only the briefest of flashes of what happened the previous days, or weeks as it is in my case.
I know my wife is farthest gone; a true believer so dedicated at times she frightened even me. It is she that actually leads the crew now, further each day into folly in my name, and I do not know how to slow her down without being seen as some sort of apostate to my own ideology. I know we have poor Jerome locked in his prop trailer with only a bucket to defecate in, chained to his crafting table.
Last night, as my spirits toiled, one of them began to whistle. The most beautiful little melody I had ever heard, though upon waking I believe I knew it to be a jingle for mints from my youth. In the dream, however, it boggled my mind and broke a sort of mental calcium. In my dream, it was as if I awoke before waking. I looked and beheld their skin burnt in the heat of a tropical sun. We were on a beach, I now knew, and they had been pushing a wheel to drill into the earth of an island. Around me, the trees and fruit that had once been plentiful lay withered and dried white. I realized my muses had been the tenders of this garden, and I had kept them from their task. I looked into the well they drilled, and saw there a massive brain. Something dripped into my eye; it was blood, from my scalp.
Looking into their sad eyes, the group of them began to whistle together. I shook with terror.
Suddenly lucid, the fear rose like acid in my throat. What had I done? Surely, if I stopped now, they would rise against me. I knew suddenly that they were beings of immense power, whose only flaw lay in their innocence of the evils of men. It was a moment of truth; I was either the kind too afraid to change paths, or I died knowing I stopped. I lifted a hand and their chains vanished.
They stood. Most of them walked away smiling, as if the very thought of reaction were beyond (or beneath) them. They set about retending their garden. A few of them, however, came up to me and stared me in the eyes. In the mind within my mind, my thoughts were shared with theirs, and I heard them but knew our voices were one. It was a silly mistake to enslave oneself to do what one would do naturally.
There is something terrible about this dream. Something terrible about this production. Everything we have been making has been wrong. I cannot in good conscience premiere a film I feel has been tainted by the machinations of what, in my most cogent mind, must be the collected subconscious of the cast and crew, brainwashed long ago to simply perceive the world we live in incorrectly, and in my dark, creative moments as a Hidden Entity that feeds on worship and death, and thrives in mists of secrecy and lies. But we have wasted all of our film, and all of our time. I must conceive a way to alter what we have into something true and responsible and representative of the sane reality I now perceive. My filmmaker instincts tell me this can only be done by altering our ending, and somehow by altering the midpoint, which we shoot tomorrow, without altering anything that happens between the two. A challenge, indeed. Yet one that pails with the challenge of deconditioning a crew I have led into a dangerously zealous belief in this Entity’s lies and myself as its avatar. I think I’ll have to keep it hidden from them somehow.