lundi 24 novembre 2008

Last night I had a dream I committed suicide in the most famously known way.

I closed my eyes and almost immediately found myself in the path of a bright, golden yellow wheat field in a country a million miles away from home. Nothing else could be seen beside the gold, except for a few complimenting trees that extended in a deep green. The sun was just about to fall and it respectively casted an additional glow, bouncing off the spikelets. The air here was fresh and aged; it wasn't touched with the stench of modern day city sewage. The trees in the distance had lived their life effortlessly, and swayed with natural gusts of wind.

In all the beauty, I was suddenly hit with the most traumatic shift of hate and torture towards the outer world. People's faces that I've seen on the street floated on the inside of my eyelids and I wanted to scratch at them and force them away from me. The gold spun around me, and I could no longer make out the individual stems of the wheat.

I seemed to be undergoing my own Nausea, and it was pulling every limb of my body in separate directions. I continued to twirl around, breathing the clean air through my nose and trying to free myself from the hate and break-through towards this clean air, the pure.
It had become too much now and I pulled out a revolver from my overall pocket. I cried. I wanted to be here. I brought the revolver to my chest and faintly heard the echo of the oncoming shot.

I closed my eyes as I hit the ground, but I did not see a bright light. Instead, I felt the cool, damp dirt on my cheek and the familiar gentle brushing of the wind. I had failed at what should have been the simplest task, and cried furthermore. I rosed slightly and shifted my weight onto the palms of my hands. The dirt sank with my weight as I looked over a hill in an attempt to see someone near by. There wasn't. With a head hanging low, I then pulled myself back towards home and lied down until my time was finally up.