What to make of the seemingly endless dreams that came night after night though never did repeat?
An unyielding sense of sacrifice that only seemed to stop at the ultimate price of death. I awoke alone and uneasy.
In the daytimes I meditated and sulked and mulled while shackled to the time-clock. What was the root?
Amateur psychologist I was, I started to tease it out. It was a flagging sense of autonomy, a constant need for reassurance from an outside hand that could never, in true faith, belong to me. My ego was bruised -- this strong sense of independence, freedom of will, of action which I had hereto prized as my apex, acknowledged as my Achilles heel. Nonsense. The drivel of self-importance constructed over the course of twenty-odd years. Castles made of sand.
It occurred that nothing belonged to me, not even this bigoted notion of self. That this stupid, purple heart was but an agent of the tides, the tides enslaved to the phases of the moon, the moon betrayed to the inner-machinations of a dark and voided universe that no human eye could ever hope to see.
In this realization one tasted something familiar -- the sense of freedom, of independence. Nothing really belonged to one and one sincerely belonged to nothing. An extra set of hands for harvest, a body that resulted merely in fertilizer, for future hands, for future harvests.
Tonight I would lay to rest this heavy brain of gas and lead and I would dream of nothing, nothing but peace.