The other night, Thursday night to be exact, I had a disconcerting dream.
I actually had it in the morning, just before I woke up for good. So I really had the dream yesterday. To be really exact.
I had woken about 3, fought my usual middle of the night wakefulness before following asleep again.
This time I dreamt a series of events which are difficult to recall or assemble with clarity or specificity, now. Dreams being what they are, it was most capturable upon first waking. I was rattled, and in the time since, the vividness has blurred and details slowly slipped beyond the edges of recollection.
My mom asked me to do her a favor.
Could I please ask my aunt something (or was I to pass a message?)
I entered a room (was it her apartment?), an amorphous place I couldn’t comprehend.
There were people, I could not see faces, but I think I knew who they were.
I don’t recall the moment when, but I did ask or relay to my aunt. I knew the message then I don’t remember it now.
But my task was fulfilled.
My aunt was my aunt but she was different. It was her face, her voice, but they were vivid, fuller; her embodied spirit was larger. She was not who she was when she was alive.
She died 24 years ago. I was communing with the dead and when I woke in the morning I felt she was in the room and I pulled the blanket over my face.
This morning while I lifted weights on the balcony, I wondered about our human pace, the vigor with which we are bothered to create life and write a continual daily narrative. We compose a story of our life every moment of our waking and sleeping consciousness. We imbue it with drama and flourishes and clutter our existential palate with colors and shapes and textures and forms and trinkets. Our ego needs more, riches and glitter and gold and power and dominance and things. Trinkets in life remain trinkets in death. We write epic novels that define us from birth to death.
Why we bother. You tell me. The story always ends the same.