Intimations of Mortality - 3
Being a series of random but loosely connected musings on my life, the world I have lived in and what the future - what's left of it - may hold.
So, I had a dream. And, in the long run, that dream worked out. Through some bad times, some sad times. Through a lot of craziness, wrong turns, dubious decisions. A lot of good luck - although I would agree with Gary Player when he said, "The more I practice, the luckier I get."
Practice. Hard work, long hours, discomfort and frustration. When you really want something, that's what you do. And I really wanted the things I wanted.
More of this anon - if there is an anon.
I knew I had a dream. Sometime between my eleventh and twelfth birthdays I realised I was a dream. Or, to be precise, I was a series of dreams. With no particular effort on my part, it became clear that I featured in the dreams of strangers. Day dreams. Lived dreams. Summoned dreams. The man in the bus queue or on the bus. The milkman, the window cleaner, the shop assistant. The teacher and the doctor. Men looked at me and I knew they were dreaming.
At eleven years old, I didn't really know what they were dreaming. Not in any detail. We were more innocent in those days. In those places. Before I was thirteen, I had developed sufficiently to understand exactly the nature of those dreams. And that I had no choice but to feature in them. I couldn't hold up a No Dreaming sign. Who would have cared?
It is an odd sensation, to feel that you have been taken into someone else's conscious dream and made to behave in a way that you would never dream of yourself. Except in a nightmare.
Not every man, of course. And, for all I know, there may have been women dreamers. I was largely ignorant of such things then. But enough to make my world a place of, first, confusion and contradictions, and then of clarity and power.
Their dreams of me fueled my dreams of escape. And then showed me the means to escape.
Feed their dreams to fulfill my own.
So, I had a dream. And, in the long run, that dream worked out. Through some bad times, some sad times. Through a lot of craziness, wrong turns, dubious decisions. A lot of good luck - although I would agree with Gary Player when he said, "The more I practice, the luckier I get."
Practice. Hard work, long hours, discomfort and frustration. When you really want something, that's what you do. And I really wanted the things I wanted.
More of this anon - if there is an anon.
I knew I had a dream. Sometime between my eleventh and twelfth birthdays I realised I was a dream. Or, to be precise, I was a series of dreams. With no particular effort on my part, it became clear that I featured in the dreams of strangers. Day dreams. Lived dreams. Summoned dreams. The man in the bus queue or on the bus. The milkman, the window cleaner, the shop assistant. The teacher and the doctor. Men looked at me and I knew they were dreaming.
At eleven years old, I didn't really know what they were dreaming. Not in any detail. We were more innocent in those days. In those places. Before I was thirteen, I had developed sufficiently to understand exactly the nature of those dreams. And that I had no choice but to feature in them. I couldn't hold up a No Dreaming sign. Who would have cared?
It is an odd sensation, to feel that you have been taken into someone else's conscious dream and made to behave in a way that you would never dream of yourself. Except in a nightmare.
Not every man, of course. And, for all I know, there may have been women dreamers. I was largely ignorant of such things then. But enough to make my world a place of, first, confusion and contradictions, and then of clarity and power.
Their dreams of me fueled my dreams of escape. And then showed me the means to escape.
Feed their dreams to fulfill my own.
61-69, F
