The Truck that Killed Me

The truck that killed me was big, and red, and came out of nowhere. I just looked up and there it was, not even moving, just a solid object filling my vision. And then I died.

I felt nothing. No impact or jolt, no pain.

And yet the details of the truck are still there in my mind. Its color, its shine, the shape of its grill softly and attractively rounded, segmented, belying its mortal hardness. Hard enough to jolt me out of that reality, that body, back into the one of the man with the pen, writing these words.

What is a dream, when we experience something we have not before? Is it premonition? The sharing of consciousness? Or just random noise in our brains?

I feel the table here beneath my hands, dark and solid and oh-so real, as real as the truck that killed me seemed before I startled awake, cool air forcing its way into my lungs to embrace my racing heart.

Who is to say that I, sitting here writing this, am not too a dream, whose dreamer will one day awake? Dreams cannot be held. Their memory fades, as grains of sand slip through your fingers.

Will I, too, be forgotten? Will my dreamer awakened be unable to hold onto me?

Hold onto me, Universe. If I am real only because I am your dream, let that dream be vivid, vital, worthy.

Just as my dreams vanish each morning, someday I, too, will vanish. I will be gone, but the morning will remain.