all i did in the past two days was to sleep, mostly, and watch some of the series i had not had the time to watch. got out for a dinner last night to welcome joe back home, mongolian food, of course, followed by two beers at hanzo afterwards, my extent of venturing out during the weekend. thrilled to have him back here where he considers his second home. to me: another rare soul who gets me, who offers good counsel, who has an empathetic, sensitive and honest soul.
as i fell asleep last night with a movie still playing in the background, i woke briefly to switch the comp off, and in that half-dazed state i remembered the swankiest dream i had just had before i woke up. i was somehow being hunted, and no matter how much i hid, i was found, and i was shot in my head. i was still looking at the shooter, not falling, not blinking, so he shot me again this time down my throat. this time i decided to play dead as who wants to be shot at again and again, hey. i stilled my heart and lay motionless. i felt no pain. i just didn't want to be shot at again. when they moved away, i touched my head. it was bleeding, not profusely, just barely. i knew the second bullet was lodged in my throat, because somehow it didn't penetrate the soft tissue of my throat further than the esophagus. when i hawked the bullet out, it was squashed with the propelled force. squashed golden bullet that was surely meant to reach my heart. it never travelled beyond where i allowed it.
what all travels we undertake in our dreams. in the summer of 2002 i had so many lucid dreams, and in one of those i was shot at, too: the first time i was shot in my dream, i was terrified of what those two guys were about to do - to blow my brains out - for pointing out that there was an order of things, justice to be upheld. how they turned to me with murder in their eyes, pulling their gun out and me begging them not to kill me, that i was only saying the truth. this time, i remember that i was not scared at all as if i am impermeable to bullets. no, not that. as if i was not fearful of death. the only thing i didn't like was the fact of their violence that i witnessed, again and again, that i didn't want to be subjected to repeatedly. i guess i did succeed in killing something in me this summer. the encounter of four weeks ago had also driven the point home that i am to leave it all. that i am to feel nothing any longer. that the games were played, that there was a winner in that game of one. all of that also reminded me that i was never a part of anything at all, it was their world altogether. all i provided, perhaps, was a scarily abstract map of sorts, an emotional map, a background noise, a flap of thousand wings. however contradictory, however secluded in my world, at any given point of time, i almost seem to know where i am. not spatially, everyone knows that more or less, but soul-wise. my autowriting spurred by invisible currents of emotional imperatives has proved many times that there are things i know of the beginnings, the ends. of the hows, the whys, sometimes. never yet of whens. when i know the whens, ... it will be a different realm. soon. soon enough. a year, or two. travels continue.