Thursday, January 22, 2009

CHAPTER 18

Life is a dream that you keep dreaming up all the time. You lie there, maybe staring at the blades of a fan going around, trying to follow just one blade with your eyes, or trying to make the blades stand still by looking in one place for a really long time, but the blades keep doing what they’re doing. There’s nothing you can do about it. And the sky turns a muddled gray outside, steeping the stars and bathing the clouds in its inky swathe. Lights come on behind curtained windows. Everything happens on its own volition. Everything is real and it all is happening because it has to happen. There’s no other way for things to work. But you lie there, staring at the dust on the blades of a fan that has now stopped spinning, and you know that you are just dreaming, just making this all up, just telling yourself that the fan has stopped, that somewhere somebody has flipped a switch to make it do so, and at the same time you know that this is a lie that you keep telling yourself, because there are no fan blades covered in dust. In fact, there isn’t even a fan. There is no switch to turn anything on or off except the one in your head. And now you hear that click. You hear that certain specific type of click that creates everything, that makes all things happen, and you are dreaming the click too, you are dreaming everything, and it is all true and happening and there’s not a damn thing you can do about the whole mess. It’s all just going to occur. So you lie there. You wait. And soon the fan is spinning and the air blowing down from the fan is the air you are breathing, and it’s the only air in the world, and the dream doesn’t matter, the world doesn’t matter, the tiny insect crawling on your thigh, it does not matter. The only thing that is real and here and is now and that matters at all is this air going in and out of your lungs. This breath that you take that is forever. But of course that breath is just a dream too. There is a small comfort in knowing this.