Wouldn’t it be heinous if we were all fast asleep, if our worlds and the forms we inhabit were what we thought we deserved?
Wouldn’t it be heinouser if we were dreaming our lives away on the edge of a black hole, some time at the end of the universe? If every stubbed toe went on ten thousand years, and every flu an aeon? If our deaths took forever, and we breathed our last breaths till they dissolved to electrons?
I don’t know. Fear dilates time, or it renders it meaningless. It’s like going over a bridge, and you’re afraid of bridges, and your mother says “don’t be silly. Two minutes, and we’re safe.” Two minutes, and what does that mean when you’re on the bridge now, and you’re still on the bridge, and you’re still on the bridge, and you’re still on the bridge, and—
It’s like that joke with the student and the professor: if I had one hour to live, I’d spend it in your class, because it’d feel like an eternity.
The world’s full of eternities. Gulches of boredom, of misery, of fear, but you know what would be heinousest? If we’re all just awake, lumps of mouldering meat. It’s just, I like my dream. I got a good one. I want to keep having it.
If anyone’s reading this, and I’ve died, talk to me aloud. Say my name and catch my ear, in hopes I’m sleeping by you—in hopes I’m dead in your dream, but still living in mine, and the walls are quite thin in between.
…wouldn’t it be heinous if we’re all big, long noodles, just great stretched-out worms dreaming human-shaped dreams?
Look. Squealy Sleepy took my chair.