A Bad Dream

Note: this should have been written much earlier in the year….

I rarely wake up due to fear. In this case, being jerked to wakefulness came because of an absence of fear, when there clearly should have been.

It was a simple, respectful, intellectually invigorating conversation. Across the table, the impeccably dressed man in black (e.g., black on black embroidered silk-like shirt) with elegantly minimalist gold trim politely led the conversation with deliberate, probing and frequently rhetorical questions. He was handsome in a Hollywood, battle-hardened Roman/Greek warrior kind of way. His demeanor and composure commanded respect, but not coersively. In fact, superficially, there was absolutely nothing threatening about him. Quite the opposite, he was “the perfect gentleman:” patient, confident, engaging, in no way overbearing. He was like a nuclear power plant, peaceful, quiet, unassuming, and immensely powerful.

In this dream, this is how Satan appeared. To misquote a cliche, “the only thing to fear is [the lack of] fear itself.” There was absolutely nothing to be alarmed about, and that shook me to the core.

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