...
I stayed up all last night and half the day today. I was in a pretty good headspace and not beating on myself for my wild "circadian" "rhythms" for once. I went to bed and dreamed big.
...
He was in charge of healing me. It was a world where we took broken or misfiring others on and healed them. I was neither clothed nor naked, and attached to him almost like a pet, but there was no patronizing or sense of relative differential in worth or quality or power or rights. None of that. He was not master and I was not slave.
It was not sexual, but I might have been his wife or daughter or grandmother or cousin or dog or horse or guitar. There was the definite sense of me being his project, that he was healing me and I was attached to him for that purpose. It wasn't even particularly personal. I could have been anyone and it would have been this way.
He kept giving me delicious semi-liquid things. Not quite Jello. Went down even more easily, but not so wet as to warrant gulping. It would just sort of slide in and go down, with a marvelous taste as it went.
I was mostly on the floor at his feet. He was sitting at a bar with his friends, and heavily engaged in conversation. I knew they all were talking, but I only really heard his voice. I know it was his four-way discussion in cyberspace spilling out into meatspace that I was hearing in my sleep, but it translated as all of us in a room. They're at a bar, having this discussion, and I'm mostly on the floor, and sometimes floating at about his shoulder height, only really hearing him. He'd get up and walk around here and there, maybe getting the next kind of ambrosia to feed me, but not really paying attention to me, and not not paying attention either.
It was almost entirely that we were not separate beings. There was no vestige of relation that equates with what we find in this world. He was healing me. He was not my doctor and I was not his patient. I was not his duty and he was not my savior. His wife was not fazed by my presence. No one was. He was not the healing saint nor I the supplicant defective. It was as though we had differentiated just enough from totality to repair/restore something that needed perfecting.
I remember piping up about how his elixirs were working. Everyone thought this excellent but almost completely unremarkable.
Maybe it was only because I hadn't been asleep long enough, but when I woke up today it took me nearly an hour to be anything approximating here.
.
