I had a dream the other night. A short, self-contained dream. Just a scene, a moment.
I was sitting on the ground in a ditch. I was holding a man about my age who was dying. A stranger.
We were both in our thirties. It was wet, if not actually raining. There was past and imminent danger in the air, but the moment seemed calm.
He had a story that had been entrusted to him alone. It was story that was more important than his life, than any of our lives. He was the story's carrier. He was the sole messenger. He told the story to me.
As he died, his story became my story. It was a story that was more important than my life, than any of our lives. I became the story's carrier. The guardian. I became the soul messenger. I became him.
