I’m scared to wake up. I hear them battering the gates, breaking down the door, laughing and shouting. They sound drunk, or high, or just on a power trip. There can be no Terror without the associated act of terrorizing, and it’s better us than them. They’ve been trained to think they have this choice to make, that in order to protect themselves, their families, their paradigms, they need to sacrifice someone else, someone ‘other’. And I am perfect for that, I am the eternal victim, I am the archetypal sacrifice. I’m handsome and smart, blessed with luck and instinctive joy, I’m charismatic. People want me, or they want to eat me. Eat chunks off me, like the demented horses I dream about every night, in my recurrent nightmares. That’s the problem, I’m scared to wake up and sometimes I’m even more scared to go to sleep. The nightmares are becoming more & more vivid, the space between wakefulness & dream is becoming more vague. All I can think about when I’m getting these visions of the inevitable future is: stupid! weak! you should’ve done it when you had the chance. Now it’s too late’. I should have done it before they got to me’. I need to kill myself, to protect myself. But do you know, that suicide is not such an easy matter to accomplish? I can’t even manage that. I know that once they have you, they have your life, they have control over you and you ain’t allowed to give it up and flee your pitiful existence anymore. You are forced to endure it, their tortures and humiliations. They feed off that. Like I said, I know what I have to do, but I am unable to do it. I can barely get out of bed, this humid couch with no sheets. I feel like I’m being swallowed by it, this stinky, sweaty, carnivorous quicksand of a couch, calling me to the other realm, over the black river of Death that I heard so much about, the place where all my beloveds reside. My father bought this couch, before the war, before he was pulverized by the criminal bombs dropped over our city, disintegrating all its buildings, cars, trees and plants, water sources and humans, yeah. My father was a coward, like me, a joyful man who didn’t much care for conflict. He wanted to relax, have fun, raise his family, sing and dance. He was a good dancer. He didn’t understand war, and he didn’t understand love, either. He was too weak for all that intensity. I remember he used to play with me, like he would play with a doll. He’d dance with me around the house, keeping me on this toes and sliding across the floor, laughing at my mother’s worried face. I was his favourite because I was the youngest and also because I was the closest to him – I also didn’t understand war, ambition, competition. I didn’t understand them because I was a born leader, a winner. I blink and I succeed, and that’s precisely what pisses them off. They struggle like rats to achieve a fraction of what I get just by breathing. Envy is not an enviable emotion to evoke in your enemies, when you don’t also have the grace to escape it. And I had that grace, but I frittered it away through my own arrogance, through greed, bullying, addictions.
I’m losing my train of thought. Since the strokes, I can’t follow my own mind. It’s like a phantom limb, I can feel it but it’s not with me anymore, it’s floating away somewhere, in the multiverse. I always wanted revenge and I want this to be my message from beyond the grave. The legacy of a coward. I know I will die and I want to die at my own hands. God failed me and I don’t want to give him this last submission. I don’t want some brutal, hairy, rough claws molesting the meager shreds of dignity I have left. I want to kill myself and watch from above when they find my lifeless body, I want to spit on their disappointed, ugly faces while they grab at my corpse, trying to shake it into servility. Dirty scavengers feeding on carrion. I will have power and control only in Death. I will go where there is high, the soul will open the gates. There, on the eternal clouds, I will forget what is ash. In the hug of our Creator, I will happily close my eyes. And the sound will rest.
Dreaming is like a matryoshka doll. I dream the dreams of another’s dreaming.
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