A windowless box is now my prison.
I rather enjoy the lack of sunlight.
I have no use for it anymore.
Not that there is a lot of sunlight in February anyway.
It's entirely too cold here.
Which begs me to ask (myself):
How, good sir,
does one abhor both the sunlight and the cold?
It would follow that one would be accpetable over the other.
But no. I hate them both.
Give me warm darkness, that's my Shangri La.
So, I had a dream last night.
"Get out!" you may say.
No, no. It's true.
I dreamt of my own funeral.
There were so many people there.
More than I would expect at my real funeral, to be sure.
As I lay in my coffin, I can hear the voices.
People whispering.
Some of the whispers were prayers.
Others were people cursing at me.....
At my own funeral!
But I couldn't see anyone.
I heard them just fine.
I knew they were there.
But strangely, I didn't recognize any of the voices.
I tried to peer over the side of the coffin.
To see the faces of the mourners.
I lay there, immobile and yet cognizant.
Finally, I heard a familiar voice.
I tried to scream out to her,
"Please.... Let me see you!"
Amazingly, I think she heard me.
She leaned in, but it was very dark.
I could almost make out her face.
Then, a light shone on her.
Like the flash of one of those old-timey cameras.
It allowed me to see her face.
But it..... her face.....
It was blank.
No face at all. Just a head... with no features.
The voice still spoke,
But there was no mouth to speak through.
"It's happening again," the voice said.
I shouted, "What? What is happening?"
I hear a camera shutter,
Like someone has just taken a picture.
Shutter.
"That's good. i like that."
Shutter.
"Oh, yes. Now have him roll over."
Shutter. Shutter.
"Can we see him cry again? That was great fun!"
Shutter. Shutter. Shutter.
A flash bulb goes off.
"This is boring. Change the channel."
Shutter. Shutter. Shutter.
Shutter. Shutter. Shutter.
FLASH!
I awoke, screaming.
"Don't change the channel!"
My heart was pounding. My back was dripping in sweat.
I was breathing like I had just run a marathon.
I know exactly what that dream meant.
Even though to you it must have seemed like... I don't know.
Abstract. Surreal. Fellini-esque. A Twilight Zone.
Just like any other dream, you might think.
But you'd be wrong.
It can't be happening again.
I won't make it this time.
I can't do it.
It's too much.
I'm just not strong enough.
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3 comments:
Wow, what a frightening dream. Great writing! I had to get to the end to find out what "it" was, still don't know but it was good, makes you feel. Did you write it?
C
did i write it? yes. everything except for the title. i must give the credit to a struggling writer who came up with that. his name is william shakespeare. i hope giving him a little exposure here will give his career a kick in the ass. good luck willie!
the title is taken directly from the end of act 3 of A Midsummer Night's Dream, where Nick Bottom, the weaver, recounts his (assumed) dream in which he is embodied of an ass (donkey).
he finishes the sollioqy by saying he will write a play of this dream. and he "shall call it Bottom's Dream. Because it hath no bottom." it's funny because his name is Bottom. and that is obviously why he calls it Bottom's dream.
well, i find it funny.
AHHHHH Elizabethan humor. it just cracks me up.
soliloquy. not sollioqy (that's not even close!)
there. that would have drove me nuts forever if i hadn't amended it.
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