Where the presence is in my mind is the dream of where all the faces would be pointing and laughing without end.  That it would be from them in the words that one finds to write them all those years later, but the teasing and tormenting is the thing that is the strongest in the sense of the words on can describe.   That it would be from them that would turn in the ashes of their mind,  further in the places that would be in the places that drawn from the memories -- and the places drawn  from the nightmares of their autobiographed pages.   That they are from the dream as they are written here, the pages that are there before the mind as the pages are scrawled out on a word processor.
         Which in the words drawn in the pages that are a maelstrom,  in where the places that one describes as they are pointing their fingers with taunting forms of laughter.   That it would be from them where I begin these,  as where they take me into a time which I tried to forget -- that it would be from them that burn themselves into the memory as another time.   But they are there from them since the beginning of one's life.   It would be from them that paint their scars to the back of the mind when the illness awakens one's thoughts into the memory where they live in them.   Where they tick like seconds of a clock that one hears the names as they are being shouted from the various corners, the details of them having no faces or distorted faces with long, outstretched fingers pointing like they are razorblades cutting into the mind where the scars from a stabbing remained.
          The kind of paranoia that someone who was in the special education system would know all too well when they are getting made fun of day in and out,  the nightmare of that often plays out even in the adult years.  The word, "retard" would be the one that would be the ever-present insult that would stand alone in the mind now even in the adult years. Those saying that would stand alone in the mind when they point and laugh in cruel torments that would stand in the mind alone. In places and hours where they seem to be in the mind when the hours fade to years, and those years fade to a near decade,  and in that decade history would seem to find a way to repeat itself.
           That even in my adult years that would stand in the mind when one writes of them now. That it would be in the mind of someone who had been diagnosed as being mentally unstable.  That in the sense of the word where losing control is frightening,  the words that are coming from their mouths of taking turns lashing out -- the taunts would be as the knife goes deeper in the head,  that it would be from the dream which I begin in the writing of this.  That it would be drawn from years told within the times of torments turn into the nightmares that stir within the pages that one writes before they sleep.  If the places which become the distant memory,  it is the words that are spoken that become the most vivid in their etchings in time.   Beneath them looking as time finds its way of seeking for them to awaken.
           In the one word that brings about the nightmares, the one word which brings about the fears that are told from the pages as they were written in years past.  The word that creates the headaches that would never heal. It would be in those scars that are deep within the mind that the nightmares are written,  the pages of the past become the present in one way or another.  Where they come in form of the faceless crowds with distorted emotions as they are there with their laughter -- their angry taunting, and the madness that is there within their perverse witch-hunt for those who have a learning disability or a mental disorder.  That they stand there with their fingers extended laughing at them like they are a form of a circus odditiy.  In the madness that brings about the dream as I wrote of them here -- the pages from the journals that would haunt me from years past,  that it is not even me when I am writing at times.  Where it frightens me at times it seems like it is an entirely a different person in the fingers,  but the mind is mine.  Where the pointing of fingers in the dream is an echo of the reality that was there all those years ago.  The strongest thing in the mind as I write this would be the details of the taunting;  where it becomes from them in pages that haunt in form of the nightmares that become the beginning of ones time.
           Retard -- the word I heard all too strongly,  the word so strongly it is in my ever present dreams and the headache that awakens me to this day.  One word -- the word that gave a special education student nightmares,  the one word that causes one to drop the padlock after ripping someone's flesh with the shackle. The sound of steel hitting flesh in the force that can be heard in form of a small sound of thunder.   The word heard spoken from the mouths of many when they are pointing and laughing at one,  the word that torments them to this day.   The words spoken in the human race that tears apart the human soul.   The dreams where it takes one deeper into the anger that draws into the torment of someone who had a learning disability or a mental disorder.   The words spoken in the absense of God, the words spoken from nightmares as they are written inside; where one can run but no where to hide from that word.   The thoughts that become a self-abuse in the sleep of someone who is not able to sleep,  being that it would becomes the shattered faith -- that it would become the dreams as the drug induced sleep would bring.   That it would be from them, the maelstrom which brings from the dreams as they are defined by one word,  by that one solitary word the torments are written.
          One word -- brings about the nightmares that would not cease,  the word which invokes the pointing and laughter of torment in their eyes.  From that one word -- induced pain within the senses of torment as drawn within pages of anger;  from them which bring the dreams that tell of the times when I was younger,  where I was aged 16 years as they said those words that tore into me at that time. Those words which tore deep into the nightmares as I write of them 10 years later.   It all came down to one word which I am writing of now -- that it was ten years later that the nightmare still plays itself out.   Beneath the things that come to pass, that it would become the thing that can never change the past -- though the future is the thing that is haunted by the events of the past because they have their ways of showing up from the fears that followed from them.   It would be drawn from those years, the dreams as they would etch themselves into unseen scars.  That it would be from them as the pages are written here, that it would be from the burned glow of a word processor that the dreams are written to a page or a series of pages in a journal.
          As it would be in those words the year being in fall of 1993, that it would be the words told in the mind of the dream told within the tense of the present.  Where it is in the indulging thoughts of theirs of the torment of another becomes their amusement,  a kind of amusement that stands among their sick fantasy of where the self-destruction of the victim becomes a form of comedy in their eyes.   That it would be the one they are laughing at or tomenting is the very person they are looking at in the mirror -- the ugliness of what they see in the person they torment, that the nightmares they bring upon themselves in form of the taunting. From the nightmares of the words that are spoken or written can be described in the term that one describes in the perspective of the one who receives the taunting and the cruel laughter.  Drawn from the memories and the recesses of the mind where they become,  the pages as they paint into the scars that are never seen in the sentences that are written into paragraphs which describe the sleep from the nightmare that paints into the pages.   From places that I wish not to describe but they are there in the mind that in the recesses where they still remained.
          That it is that word that stares at me once again which it is the one that fucks with the mind and time again when those nightmares are the existence of me.  Where the thoughts inside are the dreams that wait and bleed.  From places that become from them in the eyes of the mind where the sleep hears them pointing and laughing with their masks on their faces, and long, pointy fingers pointing at me.   One word which is there in the mind while the others point in their perverse amusement -- pointing in the direction of one and laughing like it was some sick game.  That their mistakes at birth can be the very thing that draws from the depths and recesses of the nightmare as they are walking within the writer's mind.   Of the places that become the frightening place which not even words can even begin to describe.   Where it would be from the one word, the nightmares would become the keying thing that turns in the ashes of memory that are written from the pages of the dream -- as they are written into the journal that would be searing into the soul.
          From the nightmares,  and words spoken of their mouth become the etchings of a monster of their creation -- that it would stand among the places which speak the truth of the nightmares.  As when the years they saw in time that some do change that in their perspective,  that telling when their tormenting is what become their downfall.  Which it is in an autobiographical sketch of something that tormented in the words which are spoken in the mind of the one who is writing them, it would be among the distorted nightmares where the details are in their strongest.  That it would be in the details that become the horror of the mind, which it is the words that describe the bind -- where it see in the details that draw from the word that paints the mind. The dreams as it creates the stress around them, the mind saw the echoe of recesses of memory as it was respressed.  From one word it brings the nightmares into the present day -- tearing into the mind as they lay remaining,  burning into the mind as they are heard in the modern times as they are in another set of faces.   Where the nightmares sink deeper into the mind and the recesses of the memory are told in the pages as they look back at the journal.   
          It is from there I can still hear them taking turns lashing out.   Deeper from the ashes where they lay,  it would be from them as the details paint themselves out in a drawing that cannot be found in words alone;  in the single word -- retard-- would bring about the nightmares of the pointing and faceless laughter when the points from darkness that is the personal hell;  drawn from that single damning word -- retard, that the nightmares are painted out to the open beginnings;  becoming from where their amusement is the form of abuse of another human being.   This it would become from the pages as they are written,  the pages as they stare back as a blank page of a written journal but one that is in a word processor they are written out to the most graphic of memories as a padlock that had traces of blood upon it.  It is a haunting thing to have the nightmares about being tormented by the peers,  when they had their fingers pointed out and extended it would be as they found a perverse form of sick amusement out of making another want to kill themselves. That it would be from the madness that takes form of multiple fingers pointing back at them and distorted faces behind masks laughing and mocking without remorse.  That it would stand within them
          I document from them in time as years put the tormenting in perspective it would be the thing that would find its way back into the nightmares within my adult years.  In the rejection from time and the peers,  where they draw upon the darkest of fears.  It goes in form of the ticking of the dreams that are there in the sleep while the nightmares become the reality of them.   Beneath the dreams where the nightmares pummel into the truth of the mind, that it is in time would be of the unchanging memory.  Where it would be among them drawn in the places when blood drips from old scars,  and The pummelling of the dream as it wakes one in the paranoia that was the haunted past,  that in that past becomes the present and future within them.  Where it comes into the details of the pointing and laughter of the cruelty that spawns on in one form or another.  That it comes back in form or another--where it spawns into the madness invoked by the single word shouted back -- that single word being, the one known as retard.   That it would be from them in the pages that are penned, depths from memories as the dreams are told in the eyes of the one who are written.  It would be from them in time that paint into the scars -- from the scars of memory that fade without remorse.