"No sooner had I sent that email, then problem seemed to resolve itself!"
I'm tired. It's four thirty five in the morning, and it's about three hours since I fell asleep. But I'm awake now.
I don't really know what to tell you, other than the ins and outs of this dream I just had, to which a small blog post could never do it justice.
I think I might kill myself. If I do, know this, there was nothing you or anyone could have done about it, and it was the right thing to do, and it was good.
I'm not depressed. I'm hardly psychotic, but that's debatable. I'm even happy. I'm happy, and happy to work on my course, and go to the gym, and deal with life on a day to day basis. I'm happy to work on my course, even though it's just transpired that I won't get my degree for at least another two years - even though the good thing is that I'm almost to be shifted over to the OU's Master of Physics degree. I'm happy to go to the gym, even though it's a constant uphill battle to maintain twenty three stone versus the amount that I eat. I even happy to deal with life on a day to day basis, even though it's fraught with strange characters and circumstances, and to be Frank, I'm exhausted.
I feel like Sisyphus. Pushing a rock up a hill for the rest of eternity.
I could kill myself. It's not good for people to hear or read; it makes them worried.
If I kill myself, I'll go straight to Heaven. I'll leave a legacy. People will see what I've done in life, finally. They'll look at my paintings and recognise my genius eye for colour. They'll listen to my albums and music and recognise my genius for melody and structure. They'll read my book and recognise my genius for language and literature. And when they read my book they'll see why I killed myself. I'll finally be recognised.
"Kill yourself for recognition, kill yourself to never ever stop" - Thom Yorke, Radiohead.
The dream was set in a house in Stevenage, but more likely my old house at number five. The earliest part I can remember was when I encountered Christine, my dad's auntie, and Brian, my dad's auntie's son-in-law. I've had beef with these people in real life. During the George Floyd situation back in 2020 Christine was posting "White lives matter" memes all over facebook every five minutes, and in the end I called her out. I had a go at her in a public letter, and it was necessary and got twenty or more likes from people who thought the same. But perhaps it caused a rift in the family relationship. I notice now that our little unit is never invited to parties or nights up in Stevenage, where they all live. And Brian, well, I've recently unfriended him on facebook because he keeps posting conspiracy posts. It was all well and good during covid - you half expected it at least from some people. Nevertheless it wound me up, and recently, well, from lack of conspiracies about coronavirus, he was posting flat Earth theory posts. So I unfriended him. It was impulse, really. I kind of regret it.
So there they are, in dream, coming to the party at number five, surrounded by others from the family, and Christine has come upstairs and stands outside my bedroom with Brian standing there, surrounded by others from my the family. "Christine," I say. "I'm sorry! Forgive me! Peace! Peace!" And a friend of hers says, "Peace!" and Christine recognises the sentiment and shakes my hand. So does Brian, and we embrace and I say, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! You're the man! You're the man!"
The party begins in my bedroom. Brian and I are trying to get on facebook, using my various devices, including my Atari, my Commodore 64, my BBC Acorn, and my PC. He links up to the BBC but it's archaic, and nothing comes on the screen except some code nobody understands. I go on my PC and am thwarted from getting on the website by some means or other, then I switch my attention over to putting on some music.
Smashing Pumpkins are playing on my system, but the speakers are the old ones, and I have to try to switch the cables over to the good speakers, and so I do this, and it sounds good. Some people are enjoying the music, others not so much. There are many people here, including some of the rougher people from Brian and Christine's entourage - a wiry man who appears to be on ecstasy, and some others on the same. Christine's son, a down's syndrome boy, sits there in the corner, gurning away. I don't partake of the recreational drugs. My own family is not there, although perhaps my sister is there, and Camille, and Kerry and Tasha - some of the girls of the family.
But Lee is here. Lee the writer. Lee is all about truth.
Somehow or other there is an altercation - a backlash of sorts - and it seems Brian and friends have not taken my apology seriously. Their friends stay looming outside the place - in fact, it seems they've been banished; they can't get in - they can't affect us.
And Lee has left messages everywhere, on television, on radio, on walls, in books.
The messages affect people here, including Marius, my cousin, but especially the down's syndrome boy, who seems to have been so affected by Lee's messages that his down's syndrome is cured and he sits there like a normal boy. The boy talks and says of Christine, "She's grotesque."
People can't accept that Lee has cured this child, and they become very agitated and rile up against Lee, who is very easy going about the whole thing, and has gone ahead and left messages for everybody in the neighbourhood, and the latter have arrived to protect us all. There are Chinese neighbours who muscle in on the protection of those within the party. But it is rather amazing that Lee has cured this child, and it appears that Lee himself is, in fact, the messiah,
I wake up wanting to kill myself.
But it's not a sad suicide. No. It's a necessary suicide, from happiness and joy.
In any case, I don't commit suicide. I come here. I write.
But now I'm done writing. The dream was golden and heavenly, but it was just a dream. In any case, whatever happens, God loves us.