I woke up from a bad dream and came straight for the laptop. The internet is therapeutic, did you know? Anyway, I had a vague jamboree of words and ideas when I sat down, but after 10 minutes of Facebook and gmail, it’s gone. I’m sorry but I have nothing to write.
Ah no, I’m not one to give up easily either. As I write this, I’m also hoping to delete this when I am finally able to recover the lost thought files from my memory. I know it was a cobweb-light mesh of sights and sounds; I was hungry and hopeless in a dark place. I had dreamt of my dog, dead. Here memory fails, and I can sense that I’m beginning to fill up the void with actual thoughts. Nay, ideas of what I might feel and do when my dog dies.
It began with a plan for a new painting. I have often found that the best time to compose a painting is in half-sleep, while your mind runs loose, and you’re almost afraid of what you may see. Yes, I was lazing and hoping not to fall asleep, while I distinctly felt the total absence of any revelations. The usual worries whirled in my head — a new job, money, the prospect of moving to a new city, of joining a new family, and of doing something nice with the dogs for Christmas. And then I’d come back to thinking about the painting.
My failure to settle down and focus on a single thing stang me. I kept hearing people’s voices over me, around me, and imagined formless hands groping for me from all directions. I thought dead people probably felt like that when we go and visit them in graveyards. I was still awake when I thought about this, and therefore, reminded myself that the dead don’t feel. That’s why we burn their bodies and scatter the ashes. Because once you’re dead, your heart doesn’t pump blood, there’s no oxygen or energy, so your nerves don’t work, and your brain dies, slowly, because there’s no oxygen, and therefore, you can’t feel anything.
I wondered how it would be like to look up at the blue skies and the flowers, and the prancing children, and the smells and sounds of life from inside a grave. But the dead can’t look, I reminded myself. That’s why they are dead. But I could already see little chrysanthemums waving their slender stalks over me, and further away, looking even littler, children playing with pups. I licked my dusty lips slowly, and took in the darkness around.
After that, I probably slept.
And then I had that horrid dream. I don’t want to talk about it, although I know much as I want to forget, it keeps coming back to me. For now, though, I know it’s easy being dead. Probably. Easier than to live and watch it happen.