An Hour To Live

I dreamt I was being tortured.

Yesterday was D-Day anniversary.  I worked hard and kept busy and got a lot done.  If I am going to move on, I want to be the kind of person that I would want to live with, and that also means getting over the filth of a year’s worth of depression and a lazy man.  He read his computerized books.  I cleaned fish tanks, and swept floors, and puppy crates, and took out trash.  I sunned, and meditated, and appreciated my handiworks.  The Sensual Wicca cards say what conditions will be met when I get to have sex again:  9 of swords, 9 of pentacles reversed, 7 of wands, ace of wands, the seeker.  The Gilded Tarot say the only way I will overcome this bleeding is to go under the knife:  9 of swords, 4 of swords, swords,

And I still couldn’t sleep that night.  I drank some mead, and took a melatonin, and sobbed.  I finally fell asleep somewhere in the middle of Startdust on my computer. 

And I dreamt I was being tortured.  My finger was in a vice and it was being slowly constricted off my hand.  My right ring finger.  The ‘man’ doing it was horribly disfigured, his own hands mostly scarred stumps with only enough fingers left to turn the screws on the torture device.  His legs were also missing, tortured into nothingness, stumps angry puckered scars.  He was fat and lumpy and red headed and ugly and floated in space.  Was it my finger in the vice, or his?  But I was feeling the horror and the agony.

‘You have another hour to live,’ he said in a calm, matter of fact, yet ice cold voice.  I foresaw this hour filled with agony and terror and seeming to last a year.  An hour.  ‘You will always be told you have an hour to live.  If you have 3 days or 3 hours, you will always be told you have an hour to live.’  Part of his torture, this psychological mind game.  And he tightened the slow constriction which would end my finger another notch. 

I screamed. 

He was what I would become, twisted and bloated and scarred and deformed.

Somewhere at the end of the dream, he popped down, and I was merely a disembodied head, and he sais with rapidity as if his world were ending ‘You have two minutes to live.’  I knew he was no longer lying.  It was my final truth.

I woke up to the darkness of my room.

There were other dreams.  A horse show, Parelli like, and I was not stupid.  A house with white carpet, and I wondered why I would buy a house with white carpet.  A hill with big office chairs and I was trying to explain why my paycheck bounced because I had over spent on that nice office chair as they tried to roll down the sidewalk down the hill.  And the spaceworld where we had to reach the enemy but no one had mapped the speedway of traffic winding beneath the planet for so long that no one knew the route other than they had traveled within its coils and so me, like Starbuck and Apollo, went flying the treacherous route to map the way to the enemy.  A river of enclosed, speeding space shuttles following steel tracks at tremendous speeds.  Follow the rails and you are safe enough within the shuttle;  attempt to know where you are actually travelling and you risk destruction.

But the torture has fragmented my night, and I feel revulsion and horror, like I felt as I lay crying and near screaming on my bed, going into the horror that had become my love, my marriage, my hopes and dreams.

And in my head now, all this day, I will hear his doomfilled voice echo.

‘You have one hour to live.’


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