Death? Or Life? …is but a dream within a dream.

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So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
–F. Scott Fitzgerald

After falling asleep last night, I experienced my own death — a painfully numbing experience, for a dream.

I woke from a dead sleep only to discover it wasn’t me lying there, sleeping; it was my lifeless body, an empty shell of unfulfilled expectations; left exposed, lying empty, silent and undiscovered on the abandoned shore of my early age.

I no longer had a home there, in that body. Those feet were no longer mine. Those eyes would no longer see all the magic in a life that I was once so foolish to call my own. All that magic; all that spellbinding beauty and treacherous awe. The restless mind behind those big brown eyes: for once, at last, was resting. Resting; still. And still yet, no longer mine.

Sometimes, to evolution, we can be a most impervious creature. I was proof. I never did get beyond much of the rudimentary aspects of my own humanness; and yet, even in death I would come to find something perfect about this; rudimentary can be profound.

No matter now.

I began pacing; pacing the walls and pacing the emotions, a simultaneous-somehow endeavor; all of those familiar confinements to which I had spent my life so mindlessly, obliviously imprisoned.

Pacing now, pacing. But this isn’t what is supposed to happen; where is the big bright light? Where is the sense of peace — and finality? Aren’t all of my dead loved ones supposed to greet me on a cloud?

I attempt to get dressed only to find a deep and bitter longing; rather than a phantom limb, a phantom body haunts the soul of me raw. How radically self-obsessed human beings are! The irony now doubles me over. Imagine it. The body you once had; the bed in which you once birthed dreams; the person you thought yourself so surely to be, made of fingers and toes and ideas and breaths taken; these all haunt us after we die. What can we haunt? We don’t become spirits — we always were spirits. We release the physical things to which we clung for so long — and that is what is “haunting”.

I take a gander in my gardens. Winter has undressed them haphazardly, like a man too eager for his bride’s modesty to be saved. Geraniums — neon fuscia and fluorescent-red-orange and yellow-orange too — these are in full bloom. As if to laugh violently at my swift misfortune. It is December 8th. Thirty-five degrees outside. I scraped ice off my car yesterday morning; yet the ice could not rob my geraniums of their splendor. Still, these geraniums too were no longer mine.

Did you know they are considered an early spring flower? Not late spring; not early summer; not mid-summer or late summer or early autumn or fall; and yet… They are at the peak of their season.

A glorious display of sense that can’t be made.

This is a perfect example of divine synchronicity. As if the Majestic God of Love is hinting to your soul, “Are you paying attention? Have you ever really felt love?”

God’s whispered truth is everywhere. He weaves His wonders and His eternities into the fabric of our days like Savador Dali painted his insanity on blank canvases. Funny thing about that: most of the great creators — Vincent van Gogh, Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allen Poe, Franz Kafka, Henry David Thoreau, Johann Sebastian Bach, F. Scott Fitzgerald — knew nothing of their own greatness in their lifetime. Some of the most gifted artists and writers, the souls who came into this world to make it more beautiful for the rest of us were the ones tortured endlessly by oceans and tidal waves of doubt and self loathing, and genius that bordered the wavering boundary between prodigy and lunacy.

Succumbing to the weakened atmosphere of calm, I find myself gently opening my eyes, startled by the brightness of that Eastern piercing sunrise through my bedroom window.

Slowly, quietly, as the house is still sleeping, I make my way to my wardrobe.

My jeans have never felt so wonderful.

I decide to have my coffee on the front patio; I haven’t seen my flowerbeds in months.

As I glance over, I catch sight of my geraniums — tucked in-between dead canna leaves I failed to prune — and wouldn’t you guess… they are in full bloom.

The most beautiful song in the world will end this piece perflectly. Click here to listen.

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About Brandy Desiree

"Call on me, and I will show you great and unsearchable things you do not know." --Jeremiah 33:3 I am a seeker. A lover. A doer. A thinker. I make music, I dance often, and I laugh. It's all hilarious, really. Everything. Look around you. My children teach me a lot about life. I have five boys, and yes I'm out of my mind. It works for me though; I think this world could honestly use just a little more crazy. A lot of humanity's problems could be solved by everybody taking themselves a little less seriously. I'm grateful and alive; a constantly evolving creature, thankful for the sunshine and just as thankful for the rain... Visit my corner of the universe and share yourself! My heart could implode with welcome for you.

10 responses »

    • Thank you so much for reading and taking time to share your thoughts.

      I agree. Much of my life I’ve struggled with an empath-like awareness of the fragility of life. On the one hand, I’m thankful for the sensitivity and appreciation this affords me; on the other hand, that sort of intuitivity comes at a hefty cost. It’s difficult to be perpetually carefree when you understand how delicate and real mortality is.

      Be blessed, my friend.

  1. Wow, this is beautiful! Thanks for sharing. I especially love the part about some of the great creators who have made life more beautiful for us and how they were struggling themselves and never realizing their greatness. Loved this!

    • So much love! Love right back to you! Thank you for sharing your time and thoughts with me.

      Isn’t it a terrible sorrow? That the greater a person’s potential, the sharper their mind and the brighter their inner light, the deeper their own self-resisting hang-ups go…

      I was raised by a literal genius. He’d wake me up at three or four am on any given school night — often — to share his latest discovery regarding the quantum nature of the universe and its correlating implications over the human perception. His brilliance tortured him, and still does.

      He never made it past eighth grade.

      I believe there are certain people whose spirits are so completely inundated with sheer inner power and insight that the only way they can reconcile the limitlessness of their creativity with the confinements of this world is to embrace their perfect madness, and live it.

      I believe our job is to embrace these eccentricities in others; tolerate the awkward aspects and cherish the spirits underneath the body.

      Because one day our bodies will be gone, and we will all return to the light of the moon, dancing the infinite night away.

  2. If a soul could be physically beautiful, if words could have colors, if thoughts could be aerosolized and sprayed about…I would have yours.

    I don’t understand how your mind works. I don’t understand how someone who lives now, in this same time as I do, could be such a painfully beautiful writer. I find it so rare, like your flowers blooming in the cold.

    You are my winter flower.

    • Fancy. That’s your new nickname.

      Why? Because it just makes me happy.

      You come up from the brilliant wonders of your creativity-colored world — which you live in such a mysteriously seductive yet reclusive fashion — and I’m reminded that life has a way of slapping the heavy right off your heart and replacing it with the most unexpected joys sometimes.

      You’re like the childhood best friend I never had. The really eccentric chic who laughs when it rains and screams when she’s happy and eats chocolate ice cream for breakfast — and shares.

      I sure wish you lived next door dangit.

  3. My jaw dropped as I read this.

    An incredibly stirring work channeled from the soul. Bless you for reminding us to let go of the physical and embrace the ethereal, before the choice is no longer ours. This is the gentle kind of lesson worth learning. Beautiful piece!

    DB

    • Ah. My dearest db. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

      My ADD only allowed me to reach 57 before I forgot what I was getting at. But basically, you write with the most unforgiving sharpness of observation; you tell it like it is, in a way that no one else has before; you can throw down with the best of em, get messy with the rest of em, and I always feel like I have to double check that I didn’t forget to dress myself before I left the house… Because you stop me dead in my tracks, wherever I’m at, I get lost in your posts like a maze and its rat. I forget who I am and what on earth I was doing before my brainwaves were taken on the journey. Its powerful.

      So thank you for sharing your time and frequencies with me. That’s huge.

  4. I love that picture. That is beautiful. While reading I felt my body waking up to reality, feeling itself, being itself and being more free. The song is lovely too. Thank you for putting all of these great things together and sharing so honestly in ways that make SENSE 🙂

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