The venting txt im writing atm

in a previous post i talk about this specific story. Fueled by another post I've maid called "sloth" where i talk about this sin, if i remember correctly after that i went to sleep and had the dream in this story. (81T5 is the title, the numbers if put in the a alphabet gives the word "HATE") 81T5 Resting my head in the pillow, I realized the sloth I suffer from keeps me awake. I don't sleep, I don't move, I don't rest, I just exist. It doesn't bore me but it's endless, restless, and vengeful: why vengeful? Resting in this state is like fermenting a good old whiskey, no matter how, time brings its taste and so my hate grows. Like a weed needs to whiter for the flowers to survive, yet its stubbornness is what makes hate a strong emotion. Not long ago I had dreamt of whom I will not speak to. I lost myself in said dream, I didn't know if it was my reality or a twisted illusion? After all, I hated being in there no less than I hated being here. I was in an attic, a pretty one, well lit and warm. Unfortunately it wasn't mine, I was there working, I had taken this job against my will, I wasn't mad at the home owner, i kinda liked him, but whom lived there that i hated. The pay was nice, I had my gear ready and hoped it would be a quick job so I climbed on top of the wooden pillar and walked over the beam laying cables and fissing them with wooden nails and plastic bridges. I wasn't quick enough. As I laid all the cable, I gave myself a break while making the final adjustments by the balcony, to have the whole thing running, when I hear a muffled voice, it is not that i didn't hear it, i just can't remember the sound of it, i just knew who it was, the rest is a blur i try to forget everyday. The words don't have a sound but i know what they say, is like when you already know what a person would say. Dread runs me, my heart sinks, my whole dream, or better to say nightmare, crumbles. I'm no longer in an attic, everything is just an orange and yellow gradient, like a blurry painting of a flowers field or wheat farm but between these bright and warm colors, this stain of black ink sticks out, its laugh is disturbing to me, it's not loving or funny. It's mocking. Mocking me. Mocking me? Why? I'm doing my best, I'm doing what I like. “No way, you're the guy my dad hired” I don't want to answer, why would I even state what's obvious. My focus shifts on the surroundings, the attic is back, my emotions stabilize, my focus on the flowerpot on the side of the balcony, a calm purple with a little yellow and green, just 4 petals and there are a bunch of them, colors do have a meaning, but I don't know it. “I guess” I answer back after a long, awkward, silence, enough to fill the room with dangerous signals. I'm not done with my work, unfortunately, I can't leave yet. So we just stayed still. I'm still sitting on the floor balcony with my cable in hand and some tools not really doing anything as I'm still frustrated and angry at the encounter. At this point I lost the sense of reality, what started as a dream, became a memory. When I started to wake up I wasn't sure what was real and what was not. One thing for sure is that I hated it. Once again I'm at a social disadvantage. I don't like this, my knowledge, my experiences, my insight and foresight are deemed “useless” and get overlooked. No one saw what I'm worth so why should I show it.