A few days ago I dreamt I attended my own funeral.
Not only was I in attendance, but I’d actually organised the whole thing (naturally). I sat amongst faceless friends and relatives. I shook hands with people and made small talk, like the family of the deceased often do. I wasn’t sad in the slightest. I also think there was a coffin. I don’t remember much else other than I was very sick, and it made complete sense to just bash out my own mourning ceremony before the inevitable came around. I know this sounds morbid and you’d be forgiven for being a bit worried for me (don’t be), but it turns out to be a good thing.
According to someone I pay a lot of money to each week to help keep me bound to reality, the dream is a manifestation of something in psychology that has a Latin name I’ve already forgotten. Mortifico… something something. A part of me has died, but it was a part that probably needed to.
It’s not clear to me yet which part of me has died, but the good news is that my subconscious is pretty happy about it. I wasn’t grieving for myself. There were no somber tones or intense sadness. It was all very pragmatic. The other people in the room were mere artefacts to what I was doing, and I don’t remember feeling much radiating off of them.
I think we would constitute this progress? It’s hard to say really. I guess only time will tell.
An exact year (and one month) after I first started this Substack, I have found myself coming back to it, merely to pop my head in and say hello and life is messy, unfair and seemingly only gets more complicated the older you get.
That’s all I can manage for now but perhaps you’ll be seeing more from me in the not too distant future.