On One Hand

March 10, 2006

On War and Peace

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 10:40 am

I dreamed I was in a dark room full of college-aged people when a boy with a gun came in and started knocking people off. And even though the people looked like they were my age, I had the feeling that the room was part of a high school. As is true for all of my dreams, it takes place sometime in the future, as if it may or may not actually occur someday.

The boy who started shooting had brown hair, light skin, and seemed kind and shy. One by one bystanders were shot dead, and when the shooter got to me I reached forward with both hands and grabbed the gun to save myself. The gun’s barrel was about three feet long, and I held it fast as I angled it away from my face. The gunman was stronger than me, so was tilting the gun back toward me in spite of my efforts, and I was barely managing to keep its aim away from my body. The brown-haired boy fired the gun a few times in the struggle and I don’t know if any bullets hit me.

I was begging other stronger men in the room to help me, but everyone cowered in the corners. I was trying to save all of us, I called out, saying that now was our chance to subdue the shooter, and if I was killed they would be next. But no one came forward, or at least no one got to the point where he could be of use. I think one man tried to approach and he was shot and killed.

Finally the barrel of the gun bent under the force of our wrangling, and my right hand was positioned exactly on the bend. I remember the bullets, srung behind the gun machine-gun style, ripping through the barrel, bystanders screaming “grab the bullets! Get rid of the bullets, then he can’t shoot!” The terrified shooter fired the gun once again only to cause the far half of the barrel to shatter, then he fired again, hundreds of bullets being ejected with each pull of the trigger. I looked at my hand, realizing that three fingers were gone. I still had a thumb and most of my pinky, but my other fingers were missing. I screamed.

That’s where I woke up in Clay’s arms, shaking, and snuggled myself against him, which he now says he does not remember. Semi-conscious now, I kept grabbing my hand. I was still half asleep, and the dream was still alive. My fingers that had been shot off, though visible to me now in the dim light, were completely numb as if gone. Sensation took a few moments to come back and when I was calm I went to sleep again.

The next dream (or the next part of the same dream) was about Osama Bin Laden. He was tall, young, and seemed friendly. His beard kept falling off and each time it came loose he would tie it back on. I was talking to Bin Laden about what he was doing with the Middle East, which I called “the place,” saying, “I don’t know if I like what you’ve done with the place,” and Bin Laden spoke to me very trustingly and honestly. He told me I shouldn’t be afraid of Islam, that Allah just wants everyone to follow the common values of every faith, and if I was true to Buddhism I had nothing to be afraid of, I woudn’t go to Islamic Hell, and I probably wouldn’t be attacked by terrorists. I thanked Bin Laden.

Then I heard some reporters and people from my family approaching outside the room, and told Bin Laden to either hide or put a mask on. “I don’t think most Americans are too keen on you,” I explained. The tall man, decked in cloth, thanked me and dissapeared into some corner of the small room, his white robe flowing behind him.


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