I had my first dream about being dead last night. not dreams about dying; that happens to me all the time. no, in this dream I was living in the underworld, which was represented by a jail where nobody ever came to visit, everyone was grey and listless, and I had to fight inside my own mind to try and find relevancy in this (under)world.

I tried to rally others into original thought again, I tried to get them to pick up and read the letters that had been written to them by the loved ones they had departed. Some greater power was trying to keep the status quo, though, and I found myself with my head in between prison bars, with pulsing and ringing coursing through, trying to abolish original thought.

I kept trying to fight it, trying to think free, and trying to find meaning in existance beyond death, and trying to bring it to others.

It was odd, because it felt different than many of the other dreams I've been having, it fel like it had a flavor that came completely from outside myself.

It didn't occur to me until this afternoon that I do live less than a hundred feet from very real graves, and maybe my dreams aren't entirely my own.

Maybe I'll bring them some poetry tonight.