I hate dreams like this. They don’t have the visceral terror of nightmares, but I wake up horribly sad.
I dreamed that I’d died, and my afterlife of the moment consisted of a small classroom or office setting, along with John, the guy who ran the Werewolf game in which agent00groovey and I first became friends about 13 years ago.
I was deeply in denial about never being able to see or talk to everyone I’d left behind, and was desperate to find a way to talk to Aaron again. There was a day planner book on a desk in front of me that mirrored Aaron’s, and I knew that if I wrote a message on it he would see it and we could still communicate. I kept trying to write “I love and miss you so much”, but for some reason I kept misspelling the words. I’d erase my attempts and start over, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t form the words.
John quietly watched me do this for awhile, and when my frustration reached its peak said, “The living and the dead can’t communicate. Both sides have to move on, and that can’t happen if they can still speak to each other. How could anyone carry on like that, knowing that they could never see or touch each other again, but then continue to linger without end? It’d be torture.”
I knew he was right, and I understood the reasons perfectly, even though I didn’t want to. The finality of it was heartbreaking. I woke up miserable, and hugged Aaron extra hard before I left for work. Even now just writing about it I’ve had to stop and wipe my eyes twice, and I’m not a weepy person, but if nothing else it has given me a boost of renewed appreciation for being alive.