I find myself so fond of this dream that I record it here as well as in the usual repository.Ghosts
I stood and around me found a grim and translucent company of ghosts. My father was there, my grandmothers. My ancestors both suspected and unknown to me and those I've loved through the medium of their legacy of diaries stood about me. Their long, gray looks were morose and they fairly glared at me as though in their weighty and judicious convocation they were met to solemnly apportion Heaven and give me Hell.
Whispers flew about the room like bats of thought after their evening repast of innuendo and spicy gossip. I could make out nothing save the vaguest of recriminatory, accusatory solomnence until with a move that seemed an awakening of energy, a grizzled ancestor stepped forward of them all and looked me nearly in the eye.
I say he looked me nearly in the eye in that he was a tiny man whose aspirations to height had failed him long before reaching the five-foot mark. For all of his narrow-shouldered, diminutive stature, he was an imposing, well let me say arresting figure. He seemed clad in rough cloth cut into garments as rudimentary as the bathtub of a mendicant friar. A shirt of heavy cloth and pants that were little more than tubes wrapped him in what seemed, even in the netherworld, considerable discomfort. "Look," he said to me, in perfectly understandable English, with tones of impatience and an impenitent directness. "You've got it wrong. The world is not for you at all. You can't steer things to suit yourself."
"Who are you?" I asked and was pointedly ignored. He continued, "Things are for you to find and to use as you find them. Yours is not to build and to order."
"I don't understand why you are telling me this," I said to him and got the reply "You can't rule the world, you know. It's not for you at all." I looked about me at the gravely urgent faces and saw my father nod. Others bobbed as well and in no few I saw a light of agreement kindled by these words.
I stepped past him and addressed my father, who, before I could speak, shook his head, pressed a finger to his lips and signalled me to turn about. This gesture was so unlike him I started literally started, as though jogged with a sharp stick.
My ancestor, of name unknown, spoke again, "Wait for what must come and don't try to order the world to suit yourself. You can't escape where you are, must not escape that place, and harm yourself in even the desire to do so."
"Why are your presentiments so dire?" I asked him, "What brings so many here and at this time? I hear your words but don't understand your message. What is it you would have me do." And yes, I really do talk like that.
He looked dejected, as though he had failed at some important mission. He spoke "You must surrender yourself to the world and keep yourself to yourself."
"That makes no sense to me," I complained, a note of genuine distress in my voice. "Can you explain it to me?" That tiny man, self-important, powerful, with a sense of presence, dramatic flair and so much else just looked at me and stepped back into the throng.
Variously, they rose with a cry and outspread arms, dropped with wails and averted eyes, flew with outstretched arms, and lit tiny flames in the air around me with some cometary trail they left as they traversed into the distance without receding. Alone in the silence, I woke.I have not the vaguest thought of the meaning of all of this, save to conjecture that my ancestor's are reading my fiction.
Perhaps, though, I am wrong. I would value insights on the topic and your commentary dear reader whether you reside in this world, the next, or one of SC's nearly identical dimensional variations.