Somewhere in the murk of subconscious, my pickled brain produced this lovely one-act dream.
Dreams of dying are rare for me; it's been almost seven years, and the last one was questionable.
Sunday's episode was not, as I felt life exiting my limbs and my soul/consciousness/whatever makes us tick slowly creeping away despite my best efforts.
Near as I can tell, I was being treated for some disease or subject to some bizarre lab experiment; the lab techs attached the white plastic box to the side of my head. The box delivered some type of chemical or drug directly into my brain.
A major illness was news to me; moments before I had been hanging out in one of the imagined apartments my mind cobbled together a suitable home.
It could have been a chemo treatment or just some sadism on part of the lab techs. My protests to the lab techs were dutifully ignored.
I had convinced myself it was heroin in the white box, and forcibly removed the device over the protests of my white-coated keepers.
Upon standing, I drifted from myself with a wooziness unlike any other - my limbs swooned because the life literally leeched away from them. The drifting worsened as I fell back to sit on the exam. Everything became washed out as I roared back to consciousness.
This is one of those classic "nothing is more boring than other people describing their dreams" moments. But brushing death in REM sleep always fascinates and horrifies me.
God, those dreams are terrible.
Do you hear that, God?
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