A couple of nights ago, I took my blessed melatonin to sleep, and thanks to its somniferous powers, had one of the most incredible dreams I ever had. It was extremely vivid, and --in a truthful writer’s manner-- it was kind of scripted.
In this otherworldly dream, Betty White has died, but don’t be sad, she died in the year 2096, long after many of us. The thing is that she was --in spirit-- watching her own funeral, and I was there to make her go into the light. In a positively Hot in Cleveland moment, she told me, “But this is so much fun, all this people here to say goodbye.”
Can you imagine her granny voice uttering those words?
Needless to say, she finally went into the light, and the character I was playing in the dream took more precedence in the events. I’m not going to give you too many details of the dream because when I woke up, I ran to my notebook and started writing like a madman. And the more I wrote, more of a new novel developed, and -- in that single sitting, I made four frigging chapters.
As my euphoria ebbed, I outlined the whole story, and I’m so happy with it that all other projects has gone to second place, because this felt like a revelation of some sort.
Here, the prologue is. As it was, it might change further down the line.
It’s not easy to be an enforcer for Afterlife, especially when you’re still alive. The Powers gave me the ‘gift’ of immaterialization. And I make these quotation marks with my mitts, full of sarcasm and seething bile, because more than a gift, this is a fucking curse, punishment for being what I wasn’t supposed to be.
I have to find someone who loves me, not father, mother, brothers or sisters; I’m talking true, pure, real love, and when that person is about to die, he must say that he’ll wait for me in the netherworld. Then I’ll be relieved of my duties as an enforcer and my fucking punishment will end.
I will live for whatever years I have left at that moment, awaiting my rightful time to die. Which is fucked up since that means I’m gonna have to spend the rest of my days dying of love (alone) after finding the one true person for me.
So there will be no deliverance ‘til I’m dead.
I’m truly fucked both ways, in life and in love.
Why look for love then? If I’m gonna live without it after all. Better, keep doing this shit as long as it takes and not even try finding the One.
Ah, by the way, I can’t kill myself to end this manure-fest.
My name is River Jordan.
Yeah, I’ve noticed a little cosmic pun in that too; the river one must cross to reach the Promised Land, nonetheless.
Am I thoroughly screwed or what?
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