Nine years ago I had a dream that I wrote in my journal. The details are as follows:
I am a young man still living in the home of my deceased grandmother in Santa Clara. I am grieving over the recent loss of a good friend of mine. The home is abandoned. There is little furniture, and it is as quiet as if it had been in the middle of a far off forest instead of a suburban residential street. Somehow, while walking sadly from room to room, I am made aware that I too shall die on a specific date and time. By the time I transcribed the dream in my journal, I did not recall the date, though all my life I have identified my own death with a Thursday. What I did recall for my journal was one of two possible times: In the dream, I was going to die either at 11:15 PM or 11:40 PM.
The date is going to be sometime very soon, and yet at the time I shrug it off. When the date arrives, though, and the hours are creeping closer to the end, I become very weary. Feverish with fear as much as sickness, I recline on the tiled floor of my grandmother’s kitchen. It is dark outside, and I am convulsing with anguish, but I do not lose my own consciousness. Instead, I beg for a reprieve. I am about to lose my life before I have had a chance to do anything notable. If I were to die then, I would be forgotten fast and not even memorialized in an Obituary.
I am spared. I get up off the floor, and I go out to visit with my family and friends. We all go out to eat at a late night restaurant. I am careful not to eat too much, since much of my life I have been obese. I am just grateful to spend some time with the people I love.