So- One Paragraph story #97. Three more to go for the happy hundredth. Wow. This one went a little long, but I kinda wanted to get the sense of chaos, yet intuitiveness the mind travels through in a dream. And, then of course, the higher art form that is understanding your dreams. I do believe that one can analyze a dream and pick out what trouble they might be going through at the time... you just have to be honest with yourself. When these are all said and done I hope to release a little Kindle book. Working Title, "Stories too short to bore you". Stay tuned. JC
I woke up from a dream tonight and the last of the dream I recall was the me in the dream wailing from sheer and extreme sadness. From a deep sadness so much heavier than the weight of the world.
A sadness beyond what, I can only imagine, a parent feels when they lose a child. A sadness as if someone had been whispered the actual time and date of the end of the world and was sworn to secrecy.
In my dream I am in a home. Old. Older than me. Older than hundreds of years old. I am walking through the halls and the empty rooms with people I know- dream people- men, women I know while I am dreaming, -like close friends -but in my waking life I do not know them.
The place is lived in. Wood. Ornate moulding. We come across a room we agree must have been a master bedroom- a royal type bed room. Where someone of great importance at that time, lived and perhaps slept. It was just some old room now- cold, vast in its emptiness; hollow.
At some point, sometime later, I am standing outside a door in that house and another someone reveals to me they have a thin piece of ornate gold, an emblem on it that might have represented a royal insignia or just a 'name' crest. It was about the size of my palm and the shape of a square with rounded edges and the edges extended upward about a half a centimetre. The whole thing looked as if the thin gold originally was wrapped around 6 sides of something else so it was just really thin gold and detailed banding.
This man said he had come to the place years before with his father and they pried it off of something and he had kept it all this time. We look up and see the crest, faded from rain; partially carved above the door frame we conspirr under. He wants me to have it- he doesn't want it anymore- he has had a spiritual awakening, he says, that he worries the memory of the once living people that occupied this place will be so badly forgotten and will soon fade away in a pile of rotten lumber. He wants the memory of this trinket that meant nothing to him then, but must have meant a great deal to the original owner, to now be with someone who will remember.
I take the piece and look it over. Closer and closer...and in my dream I weep. I weep like a lost child.
When I wake I am in my own bed. Outside the window it rains what sound like thick drops. In the darkness of my room with the wet world living away outside, I think how I wish I had a special someone in my life- to live with- to wake up and tell my story that has left me with soul crushing sadness.
That soon we all will be forgotten.
I then think that even if this special someone were here I know I would not wake her and tell her this story because she would be sleeping and it would be silly to wake her; tell her I dreamt something so sad I wish to cry for all of the world.
So, I feel more alone than I have ever felt. That in the end we are all alone even when we are with people we love- just fighting to find a way to live forever, to be remembered. That these loved ones- friends and lovers- are wonderful distractions from the inevitability of death.
With no one to speak to and no one to reach across the great span of my warm bed; to touch just ever so and dispel the grand gaping emptiness with the energy of their spirit- all I can do is listen to that rain beating down across my city- on all the houses of of all the people I will never meet and who will never meet me and wonder if the memory of me will live on, just a little past my time on this earth.