Note to the Existentialist self #13

My sleep continues to be troubled by odd dreams. Last night I dreamt I was a snail crawling across the edge of a razor blade. A very long blade, or it must have been how slow I crawled across the blade. I can’t be sure. Somehow it was
as long as the arms of God.

I crawled. I crawled. Repeat.

I crawled because at the end of the blade was a flat surface. Was relief.

I crawled. I crawled. Repeat.

But it was a mirage.

The blade was longer than the arms of God.
And I cut the blade, what it bled wasn’t my blood, and where my slime cut, healed over like Prometheus.

The blade survived me. Okay, maybe survive is a strong word.
At last, an eternity later, having crawled without safety, without guide or shelter, without miracle, the blade gave up and opened the flat surface for me. And I leaped onto the flat surface.

But it was another mirage.

It was another blade. Much blunter. Much shorter. Like the arms of man, those whose reach exceed its grasp.
And still I crawled. And crawled. Repeat.

I still don’t know what it all means. How the blade symbolizes the steadfast meaningless of existence, and if me, the snail, cutting the objective surface of reality is a by-product, a nonessential component of reality, and my cling to the blade as nothing more than something tenuous and feeble?

Oh well, it takes a long time to understand that you’re nothing. A long time.

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