A couple nights ago, I died in my dream. There have been instances of my being shot, stabbed, falling out of trees and tumbling down hills, and instances of falling out of skies and off of cliffs and down into never-ending pits. I’ve never actually died; well, not an instance can be remembered.
I can remember being told that I was going to die. I was in denial and against it at first, but recognized my death as a good thing, a sacrifice that could almost benefit others if not the entire human race. As I lied upon the table, it was me telling the person — doctor or other — that I was ready. A needle was stuck into my arm, the serum was injected, and my body shut down. My eyes rolled back and my lids closed first. My body slumped, and my arms fell over the sides of the table. My body was felt as it turned into dead weight. The thought that crossed my mind: “This is it? This is dying? What happens next? When do I reincarnate?”
The light wasn’t exactly white, and the dream felt more black-and-white than color, but that last glow was more of a very light, pale pea green that teetered on the brink of being white. Numbers fell down in front of my face, as if Fate wanted to allow me to see the last thing that I could care less about: numbers and code. Sure, this seems very Matrix-like, but a dream is a dream.
My dream book was referenced. Decent websites were searched for. Aside a couple of negative elements that insinuate depression and fear and anxiety and simply bad reactions to living in the moment, the sources coincided a lot in regard to interpretation.
It’s about transition. It’s about personal development. Change. Self-discovery. Becoming enlightened and more spiritual. It’s a termination of bad habits and negative ways.
While I can embrace and accept the anxiety, it’s because of growth and changes that yield such timidness and fear. I’m taking on more responsibility, and loving every minute of it despite not getting paid for the vast majority of it. Sure, I could use the cash, but these opportunities and resume and conscience and confidence boosters are overwhelmingly positive to me.
And that’s a problem. As I am out in the public more often, and say yes to everything that is being asked of me, I’m finally seeing a great self-worth. And, unfortunately, current situation/location is seemingly growing smaller, tighter.
It’s strange how a loss of a relationship can affect you. You realize how much you care about a person; although, that care was recognized, it’s not after it’s gone that you realize how beautiful emotion is. It’s difficult adjusting to “let’s just be friends,” but there is not an impact that’s negative. It’s fighting and hoping for something that’s not going to happen, and you know it’s not.
With consideration to a once acknowledged muse, her writing and attitude and personality and view of life, all that vitality was somehow transferred to this one person. When the relationship ended. The fellow writer from afar — who knows if this is coincidental or not, whether this was encouraged by the audacity and hand of Fate — posts a photograph of a record player that is boasting Edith Paif’s “La Vie En Rose.” And my mind accidentally drops the thought of “Really are you fucking kidding me?” and, after being juggled and hitting the sides of my skull, falls and unravels out of my mouth like a spool of ribbon.
And she or Fate reappears relentless. What kind of clue is that? This kind of sick torture is only best, unfortunately. No pain, no gain. If one can’t be affected emotionally, they have no heart or sound mind — at least I have those, and I am grateful.
And we left each other with a hug. A long hug. One of those hugs that says “I care about you,” “I care about this relationship, no matter which route or designation is taken,” and it was comforting. Friendship will be worked on, and it will eventually succeed. My mind was at ease and my heart was beating soundly before we said goodbye and ended the evening with driving away. Friendship will be worked on, and it will eventually succeed.
[It’s the end of the chapter. Character goes through that rebirth, and will eventually carry on. Meanwhile, he goes back to reading.]
I play with words and invisible objects.
A mind, a pen and a piece paper have the best relationship ever.
"Remember this--if you shut your mouth, you have your choice."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald