Dreams of the dead

Dreams last night of pursuing, and catching up with, a dead friend. I expected, as a I dreamt, a denied-quest narrative. Instead, last night I got the prize. Several times. I got to talk to Tom, see how he’s getting on. He’s fine, if a little lonely and concerned for his daughter. He was trying to organize a concert. I got to hear his laugh.

I dream this sort of thing a fair bit. It’s emotionally charged. It’s also reassuring. Even as the dead friend explains I have to leave (it’s never the friend who has to leave; I’m the interloper, the trespasser), even as the friend points to a clock or pushes me away (Michael either ducks out of sight or gives me a hard shove on the shoulders so I fall backwards, and he seems to do so with regret), even as the friend gives advice on how I must travel “back” — even as separation happens again and again, the dreams, the contacts are reassuring.

Tears in the morning, though. Tears in the morning.


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