This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Direct-Mulberry-1649 on 2024-11-22 07:22:19+00:00.

Mass Media Dream Control

It all began with a TV program.

I was, like most people, I liked to unwind after a long day with my series. Predictable plot, shallow characters, it didn’t matter; it was comforting. One night, I fell asleep in the middle of an episode. I dreamed about something strange-wandering through a large, neon-lit mall, lined with endless rows of products I didn’t recognize but desperately wanted. I awoke with an overwhelming urge to buy a specific brand of sneakers.

At first, I didn’t think much about it. Some random dream. A passing whim. But then, the next night, it happened again. Different products, same mall. This time, it was some energy drink. The dream was vivid, more real than any I’d ever had. I could feel the cold can in my hand, the fizz on my tongue.

The following day, I bought the drink. I didn’t even like energy drinks.

Weeks passed, and the dreams became nightly events. Each one was meticulously crafted: aisles of gleaming gadgets, clothing that fit perfectly, snacks I’d never heard of but now craved. The dreams weren’t random; they were targeted. And they always followed an evening of TV or streaming.

I started to pay attention. On my screen, way off in the corner, there was this slight pulse of light; sort of a flicker. It would come and then it would go, perfectly timing with the background music of shows or movies. I tried switching platforms, but it didn’t matter: Netflix, Hulu, YouTube-all had it.

Curiosity turned into obsession. I recorded episodes and slowed them down frame by frame. That’s when I saw it: a flash of text embedded in the video. “Relax. Dream. Consume.” It was too fast for the conscious mind to process, but my subconscious caught it every time.

I stopped watching altogether. For a week, I avoided every screen. The dreams didn’t stop. Instead, they became more aggressive, more invasive. Now, it wasn’t just products. It was experiences. Exotic vacations, luxury cars, sprawling mansions. I’d wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding with a hollow yearning I couldn’t satisfy.

I tried to talk about it, but no one believed me. My friends laughed it off. “You’re just stressed,” they said. “Everyone dreams about stuff like that.” But they didn’t. Not like this.

Then I noticed something else: people around me were buying more. Colleagues came to work carrying gadgets they could not afford. My neighbor replaced a perfectly good car with a flashy new one. Even my mom, a self-proclaimed minimalist, suddenly changed the interior of her entire house.

It wasn’t just me.

One night, I just didn’t care anymore. I attached a TV with an analog antenna-one that was way out of reach for streaming services-received some sort of random, staticky public access channel, and watched the screen until I fell asleep.

The dream was different this time. I wasn’t in the mall, but some sterile, white room completely surrounded by faceless people. They whispered in unison-voices like oil, it seemed-ending with: “You can’t run. You can’t hide. Relax. Dream. Consume.”

When I awoke, my phone was buzzing. Every single app was blowing up with advertisements for the products of my dreams—products I never searched for or spoke a word about. My bank account had been robbed, and on it were placed orders for things I did not recall purchasing.

I smashed the TV that night, threw away my phone, disconnected the internet. It didn’t matter. The ads materialized anyway: on billboards, in magazines, even in the songs playing on the radio. The dreams followed me, stronger than ever.

I don’t know how much longer I can resist. Part of me doesn’t want to anymore.

Last night, the dream changed again. The whispers weren’t selling me anything. This time, they gave me an address. It’s not far from here.

I think I’m going to go.