—–Only half-awake, and tempted strongly to sink back into sleep, succumbing to the pulling and beckoning forces of a strongly familiar set of dreams, it occurred to me that the content of my life was being siphoned off into another world. I was already there in that other world, even helping with the construction of its scenery, there in chains of sleep as a worker. Obeying commands that I did not understand, but that I was obeying nevertheless. But this other world was not completely assembled, and I was not fully reconciled to it; nor was it calling for my total cooperation. Or my exclusive participation. I was not a central character there, in the same way I am in my waking life. For in my waking life, my awareness is more sure of itself and its path, as it maintains a vaunted and vital identity. In this world I am famous, I move within the charmed circle of my notoriety. But now my dull and inert body was being drained; I was being robbed of valuable material strength, and even concrete ideas that apparently would be vital. . . elsewhere! Of use, just a plebeian use, in an already existing alternate locality, the route to which was established in this dragging, dreaming state. And what if it was my most unique insights, those which still remained inexpressible, or not yet made known to others, that I had only put on deck, because they were unfinished and too precious to expose yet to the needful world? What if this is what they, the dream weavers, the stalkers, wanted? And before I could find a way to bring them into use here, they were being siphoned . . . Had I been in this life only as a scout, an explorer, a researcher, a gold miner? Meant to bring back gold, to my somehow long forgotten fathers? Who had sent me here.
—–Surely this is a primitive myth, surely a hackneyed dream, dreamt by an amateur dreamer. I would not want to believe that what I found as truth in this life was not, finally, applicable here, profound only as insofar as it was meaningful here. Nothing I could think could belong in another place–why this was an operating principle of mine, was it not?  “I better get up and put my boots on,” I said to myself. But the fearful notion kept on for a while, wrapped around me still, and went through all my limbs. Riveted me further, impaled me with the singularity of the notion alone–because I didn’t know where it came from. I was half awake and stupidly lulled with the possibility that such was the scandal, that it was in some other place, where I was deserving of my ultimate fame.

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