Nothing into Nothing

When the sun shines on my face in the early morning and dreams rise to the surface, then I know things. Before and after I am blind. Living on the sidewalk, breathing cotton, worried about nothing into nothing. 

In the dream there is a road. But it is the feeling that I remember. The feeling of truth that becomes marionette with every attempt to translate it. The theater of my dreams is a reflection of what is, shadow puppets of fragmented mythology. Oh holiest of arts - the cave, the flicker, the pointing hand.

I am looking at two sides of the highway. There is a center median, separating opposing lanes of traffic. Each side of the thoroughfare is a state of reality. At first I take for granted the death that would come if I were to be hit by a car. I am protecting something - some sense of identity, some figment of myself. 

I don’t remember by what means, but I make it to the center. Traffic passes with quantum speed on either side. There is an empty car here and I am compelled to get inside. Deep grey, worn, evenly bruised so that its shell is nondescript, a prop. 

A dark figure steps from behind the vehicle. It is his job to prevent me from getting in. There is an intention to do me harm. Cold terror as I realize I am trapped. Endless streams of traffic fasten me to the island. The sky is as grey as the car and lines separating the two are like fog - nouns blending into verbs - objects into being. 

Now as I write, I listen to a string quartet - desperate violins, quivering, suspended in baritone warmth. It becomes the score, perfect accompaniment to the feeling of the dream - or the newly invented feeling married now to the music. And so, the looming antagonist of this world dances with me. And I, afraid for life, attempt to maneuver around the car, find my way in, win this deadly game. I am protecting something - some sense of identity, some figment of myself. 

I don’t remember by what means it arrives, but suddenly there is understanding. It is not defined, not a voice from outside, but a blossoming of internal trust. The fear continues, but now it rides alongside the doubt that there is anything that can die. Nothing needs protection. 

In this center median, cars whizzing past, it is available, the understanding that death is not an ending to anything real. The other two sides of the highway, while safer in one sense from the perilous school of this middle world, are brilliantly constructed sets - facades of importance. Here, I suddenly know I cannot die, that I will come back to continue whatever journey captivates me. Even if I don’t know why.

I will get into this car. I step out from behind the driver’s side door. The cold, wet air is all over. There is a metallic taste in my mouth. I see the top of his head, hair grey, like everything. The violins are softer now. Budding courage pulls me from the habit of self defense. It is the gun I can taste. It flashes in his hand - eyes hard, black. Fear begs me to hide again, but the trust has grown too big for that. And now, despite the tension, a playful etude calls me forth. He holds up the weapon, hand shaking, tasked with this, his mission. And just as I cannot keep myself secret, he must shoot. Some divine bond holds us to these roles.

A million years fill the moment between the exit of the bullet and its entrance into my chest. And then, bloodless, breathless, I die. Just before or exactly when this happens, the knowing is there. The trust, triumphant. Blind to sight, I feel the highway, the sides, the traffic, blurring into nothing. And then, bloodless, breathless, I am born into the same moment, crouched behind the same car, knowing he is there, ready. 

Over and over again we dance, enact our scene, until the courage that was at once so painful, is easy. There is no hesitation. There is no car, no man. I am not there. 

And with the sad adagio of our string quartet, the morning sun shines on my face and shakes the knowing. As I wake, I am again living on the sidewalk, breathing cotton, worrying about nothing into nothing.