November 21, 2008

A Dream
Awake …. it is almost exactly six and I have been crying in my sleep, remembering a dream, a
dream of my death …. there are no details, just my death. In the dream I die alone, a thought that
has been worrying my mind since the experience, two nights ago, when the Spider’s Web finally dis-
solved into airy nothingness, leaving nothing but emptiness and alienation.

After my dream death another dies; she is young, thin, and has shoulder length straight blond
hair. She always dresses in a formfitting black dress which flows down her body to her ankles, out-
lining her somewhat androgynous body. She has followed me in death so that I won’t be alone.

We, my follower and I, have never spoken, but instead we wander the town, which is this town –
but also not this town. She is my follower, my silent companion. Ours is a relationship of Love, but
with no carnality. She has been in my dreams constantly for weeks, not always in the same “world,”
until our mutual death today. I wonder if she will return for more nocturnal visits.

Her father is a Christian Minister, but he accepts my relation with his daughter without judg-
ment, trusting my basic goodness because she tells him so and he believes. And will spend hours a day
discussing philosophy, which he translates into a Christian Idiom, often using the result for some
Sunday Sermon.

He is also he is my protector against the world, but in a different way than his daughter, support-
ing my physical existence needs partly because of the usefulness of my philosophical points of view,
but mostly, I think, because of my relationship with his daughter. I never attend his services, but live
secretly in his Christian Community – it is clear in the dreams a community, maybe hidden, is in-
volved and not just a church – that under an alias. No one, but his daughter knows who I really am.

What do these dreams mean and why do they keep visiting me? Does this question mean any-
thing? Maybe their only meaning is the meaning I choose for these dreams and nothing more.

© B. W. Reed