Dreams: A Meditation on Halloween
It is the time of ghosts, the time to acknowledge and celebrate what is always present, never hidden, but usually ignored.
In my dreams, the dead and the living mingle, not separated by time. A cruel man, a man I hated when I was a child, a man dead for many years now, asks me to recommend an iPod. In my dreams, the dead are not dead. In streets and houses, they go about the same business as the living. The Arizona desert is in Glasgow, Scotland.
Conversations are had, work is done, and it is as though old hurts and grudges never happened. In my dreams, the dead are not dead, but their weaknesses and failures are, leaving only people with no one to blame.
The stories we carry are the real and only ghosts. Only stories are born, and only stories die.
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