Dr Zen was wondering whether if you dream your children are dying, does a part of you want that? Isn’t that what dreams are: the manifestation of your unconscious onto the canvas of your sleeping mind?
Is it even meaningful at all? Sometimes he think that the hardest thing in this life is to distinguish signal from noise; or, in darker hours, he think that there is only noise, and the signal, if we feel there is one, is created from whole cloth.
Does it mean there is something wrong with him? What does that even mean? He feel entirely wrong. He often stop and think, he want to be someone else. He can’t distinguish the thought from thinking that he want to be him. A real him, as though such a thing even exists. Does it?
This is the question that he have asked himself often in the past few years, which have not been good for him. Is this him? Or is there, as he feel there is, a “real” him waiting to spring from beneath this beleaguered shell, like a butterfly from a cocoon of shit?
Do others feel like that, like they have a beautiful core that has accreted grit, dirt and shit and if only…
(He know that the cure for if only is to just do it. He is not stupid. He sometimes feel that he is acting stupidly because he has multitudes within him and different parts get to drive the car from time to time, and some of them don’t have a license. Or know how to steer. Or what the pedals do.)
Can’t you just wake up and be who you are? Isn’t that what everyone else does? Isn’t that what he is doing?
He is afraid that it is. He actually fear that this man that he see when he look in the mirror really is him, is the summation of what he could have been, what he put in and took out.
God, he need a drink. he need a god too. He do admire some of those who have one’s ability not to fear life. The teaching aide in his twins’ prep class is a hardcore Christian. He imagine her bouncing out of bed in the morning, delighted that there is a new day for her, that her god has blessed her with health, vitality, joy.
He think he understand envy. He does not want what others have. He does not has any lack of material things. But he envy those who are who they are and even if it meant cutting myself to ribbons and pasting those ribbons into a whole new pattern, he think he want that more than anything, but do not know how.
He does not want them to die. His son has been asking his mother about dying and she does not know what to tell him. He does not know either because it is the only thing he regret about his children: that he has condemned them to be and not to be. Perhaps they will find joy and mind not being less than he does.
He was thinking, he has to tell you to wrap this up, he was dreaming, he mean, but daydreaming, about the hummingbird he saw at Eungella. It was perfectly poised, motionless but for its flickering wings, on a warm afternoon, high above the log it used to perch on, motionless but for the ceaseless motion that created its lack of motion. And he doesn’t know what that means, but he hasn’t forgotten it, and so much else you just forget. It seems to mean something, but what? What if the reason you cannot tell the signal from the noise is simply that you do not understand the signal at all?
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