Dream

Last night I dreamt the dream of my death, but it was an appaling opaque photograph in movement in its bursting joy and trembings of flourishing happiness raining from cemented ceilings, it was a dream unlike any other.... not unlike Rahel's. In the dream although it nevertheless was interwoven with a re-interpretation of another past dream there was a yellowing light hovering on the sights from all the possible oblique angles and the photograph didn't remain static in black and white, it seemed to be moving all the time as though being watched from a stellar moon, quite far outside in the universe and free from the quintessential chains of the human condition yet bounded by the dread of nearness.

It was the disease that killed Jim in his New York apartment and that seemed to vanquish those readers of Virginia Wolff, it was the hourly being of Goethe in which he has given her only enough time to live as to mourn in the disguise of a witness. As he jumps out of the window he fails knowingly to find the waters and drowns in the asphalt as though one of many representations has failed at the time, he lived only in the imagination and therefore is himself become real, turning Augustine into the shade of an angle, unable to grasp the spirit of motion in which all truths are weaved as though a tapestry covering the skies even above God's prayer shawl extending all over the slies of heaven, man's chain-home in the companion of a lover, of a solitary lover that is unable to count the hours, he's mourning eternity and regretting not having been Greek. He is himself stupefied.

As I discovered the cause of my death I wasn't still there, but preferred to stand still in that room without weeping, without yearning for Rome, it was a dream so powerful that it was seemly being experienced in the third person, in the perspective of Descartes, devoid of any human touch and almost unable to link the feeling to the expression. I had choosen to open my phylacteries bag and pray, not the way we were taught to pray but in a more Kafkian fashion; I had learnt to pray by means of attentiveness. It wasn't a dream about death, it was a dream about love and about freedom. It wasn't a dream that can be described in philosophical terms and broken down to sequences of phenomenae, dissecting each and every second of it would have shattered it to pieces. It wasn't a dream about fear, bur rather about sureness of the self. It was an island that destructed all possible forms of prayer, that ransacked the imagination and remained aloof in a petrifying form of movement, so candid and yellow that it was impossible to follow through, a million different pathways showed me open doors with words stained in invisible skin and weary from travelling, from being passages themselves.

"I've told the tale. The Midrash isn't beautiful, is difficult" [G. Rose]. It was a watery phrase that compelled one to a very Stoic form of contemplation, some form of belligerant skepticism that wasn't laughing about death at all nor about the comedy. It was just laughing at the tangible world because it had become unbearable, it had become silent. In the dream moments before the deadly sweeping of orgiastic proportion I had been talking to my father, trading modernity for innocence, for unawareness. The dream is just queing a shadow and a half before objectivity, before mind-informed obsessions, before illuminations. It awoke me to a very sunny morning, as though I were a passanger on a bus-tour of the earth. I heard all those voices screaming in the silence of blood, singing epiphanies as though the war were over, we are all returning home. In the unearthened situation I didn't experience any familiar faces, I didn't experience familiarity at all. It was such a lonely dream. It was a dream only in that it used the narrative of the present to postpone a foreseen future, in every other respect it was just a photography of earthly life. Not even dreams can speak their own words these days. They need tiny crystal houses to navigate in the waters and swiftly undie themselves into a different form of fear. A childish voice screaming outloud love, the love of the philosopher, that became possible once again only since Auschwitz. If we knew what or who we are, there would be no literature, that's why the scripture needs to re-write itself anew at any given moment, because knowledge has been transformed in deceive and falsehood, it's become translated with subtitles in bodily movements. The world can only be translated into irony and laughter, into paradoxes, into rootlessness from the origins of everything, into the immanent reality of mystery which is allegedly and cruelly more real than reason. One sin has been replaced by a murder.