Thursday, July 27, 2006

On the subject of fear

I had a dream last night where I was standing on the beach, completely alone, probably around dusk, and I was holding a baby. I had it pulled close to my chest, and all I could feel was this completely overwhelming, consuming love for this child that I was holding, but I didn't seem to have any kind of intellectual attachment to it. I have no idea whose it was, and even in the dream, I don't think it was mine, but I wanted more than anything to just stand and hold this baby.

I was completely clothed, but the waves were lapping at my legs and I started getting really nervous, as I knew the high tide was coming in. I just stood there, for what seemed like hours, staring at the horizon as the water got deeper and deeper and deeper, but I didn't move. I wasn't stuck in the sand, I don't think; I just didn't have the desire to move. I was scared for the baby, and didn't want it to drown, but moving away from the water seemed like too much effort, even to save the baby, so I just continued to stand there as the water rose. I woke up before either of us drowned, and when I did wake up, I wasn't scared, but instead had this very strange sensation of resignation. Like, "Wow, it's too bad I didn't make any effort to move to keep the baby, and me, from drowning, but that's the way things are."

I don't think it takes a genius to figure out what any of this means.

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