The last week or so I’ve experienced surreal dreams about death. Not sure why.
Perhaps the recent bout of sinus congestion from allergies cut off enough oxygen to send me into an altered state. I don’t believe it’s a health issue, though the doc who examined me last week for the “cold” recommended I have a physical later this month. “You’re old enough you should get one a year,” he said. “Last one was more than five years ago.” So, a perfectly reasonable development.
Perhaps it’s a psychological reaction to the idea of a physical. I started walking a few weeks back, I watch my calories and food intake; I’m a big fan of Jillian Michaels, here; I love her to death, always had a thing for strong women. Perhaps a physical reminds me of the doctor visits the families on Losing It With Jillian have at the start of the show; once I have my physical and get the news of where I stand with my health, there aren’t any more illusions.
A lack of illusions isn’t a bad thing. I don’t believe I have a skewed view of reality. So what I think is happening here is that I’m mentally preparing myself for a paradigm shift.
I’m fairly certain I’ll welcome the change. Primarily because it’s fodder for writing. How often does a person change their life? Graduation from high school, graduation from college, marriage, children, loss of loved ones. And those are the normal turning points in someone’s life–if you’re fortunate enough to lead what’s called normal. Death, though, that’s an experience a writer can only dream about, hopefully, either attempting to convey a sense of finality or continuation. Best-case scenario, I can empathize with my fellow men and women and their own experiences with mortality.
While my dreams of final moments may not hold any truth for the people who will read Sacrifices, know that the deaths I offer are as honest as I can make them. What you will see is what I saw, even if only in a dream.