Ever since childhood, I've had dreams about death. Such dreams aren't morbid. They merely underline the strangeness of existence. It's hard to believe that one is a breathing, digesting, thinking organism, for no apparent purpose other than to survive until corpsehood. Last night I dreamed about being a seasoned superhero, like Morono Man, approaching the scene of a shootout. I got out of the 1967 Chevrolet Biscayne and was about to let the gangsters know their time was up when a bullet went into my chest, spiraled around inside the rib cage and knocked me backwards, against the car door. A second bullet went in and similarly spiraled around, without hitting vital organs. I began blacking out as a third bullet went in. With the fourth bullet, it felt like falling down a well.
The whole thing was quite peaceful, like having a heavy burden lifted off one's shoulders. It was pleasant to sink into darkness, to be finally freed from the human condition. Then I woke up with pain in the shoulder.
No comments:
Post a Comment