Category Archives: About Dreams

World Bridger (a Vision)

              Dreams and visions.  They come to those who seek them; who seek understanding in all the places where society, civilization, the System, the Status Quo or “The Matrix” insist there can be no understanding except through blind belief and blind obedience.  It insists that everyone must follow the pattern laid out by the Powers that Be, from “God” on down.  Anyone can own a piece of the puzzle if that piece is handed down from those in authority.  If it isn’t then it’s illegitimate, illegal, blasphemous, immoral – take your pick: you are not supposed to have it and must destroy it, or hand it back to the authorities to be destroyed (or hidden in their underground vaults).  If you insist on keeping unauthorized information you place yourself in danger of the “Inquisition” – and be certain that said Inquisition exists within every form of totalitarian power, whether it be religious, scientific, academic, political or financial.  Those who have stood against the Inquisition know what I’m writing about.  Take Galileo; Julian Assange, Joan of Arc, Salman Rushdie, Chelsea Manning… and speaking of “whistleblowers” – check out the list on Wikipedia.  So many others who spent their lives in prison, were executed and tortured to death because they held to a truth that was denied by the System.  Also, if the subject interests you, read up on how the biblical prophets were treated in their days as they pointed out the error of the ways of Israel… errors which caused many a terrible conquest and diaspora; errors which are being repeated today by that same nation and which will have the same ends, for ways not changed means of certainty that history must repeat itself for Earthian humanity.  

                                        World Bridger  (a vision)
           (from the files of    ~burning woman~   by Sha’Tara)

          In the darkness, I heard a deep voice echoing.  It said: “You are Tara, daughter of Earth, you are a Planet Bridger…”  As I peered into the dark, which was the dark of space, I saw two planets orbiting.  Then the voice continued: “In the depths of space, two twin worlds move slowly towards each other through the eons of time… Soon they will come close enough to each other for a bridge to be formed…” 

          I looked at these two twin worlds.  One was pristine, beautiful, green, lush, full of life.  Its waters were blue and clear.  Everywhere was a sense of pure joy.  The other was the opposite: it was blighted, polluted, desecrated.  Smoke swirled around it, and on its surface people ran here and there aimlessly.  There were wars being fought, and famine was rampant.  There were plagues and diseases of all kinds.  Pain, misery and death marked the passage of time there…

          When these two worlds approached one another, at some perfect timing, a ball of reddish/golden light appeared between the two planets.  Inside this ball of light was a being apparently sleeping.  Then, I found myself there: I was that being, Tara, the Bridger.  I awakened from my sleep and began to stretch myself.  As I did so, I emerged from the ball of light and it vanished. 

          In space, I stretched my feet towards the pristine world and I saw them enter the soil and become a part of the landscape.  I could feel the well-being of it, the invitation to share in its bounty.  I stretched my head to the wrecked and wretched planet, and when I touched it, my hair, which flowed in abundance, entered that soil like millions of roots, and I became a part of that world.  I felt the burning of it, an unwholesome uncomfortable feeling within my head. 

Now, there was a bridge between two worlds.  Soon, people from the blighted world began to walk upon my flesh; to wonder at, to ponder, this phenomenon.  Some, recognizing the bridge, gave thanks and in gratitude, quickly made their way to the waiting Edenic world.  Most, sadly, were afraid of the consequences of trusting in this new thing, and chose to just wander around a bit, then returned to their miserable existence.  Another type of human came to explore my body: the ‘gold diggers” or resource seekers .  These brought the same tools they had been using to destroy their planet.  They proceeded to cut up my flesh, looking for treasure.  Finding nothing of interest to their blighted senses, they too returned to their world to continue in their pointless existence.

          In time, when the two worlds were again beginning to orbit apart, all those who were upon my body left.  Most opted to remain on their old world, afraid of the future presented to them.  They could not believe that this new world was ‘real’. 

          When I was completely clear of traffic, of human life, I pulled myself free of the old world.  My hair tore out of my head and remained in the soil there.  I pulled my legs away from the new world, and my feet remained in that soil.  I rolled myself into a ball… and died… or so it seemed.  I became non-living, in the sense that we know it.  My body also vanished in space.  Then the voice came back and said: “In time, when this cycle is complete, you will again return to bridge these two worlds, for you are infinite, you are life.”

          By choice, and by whatever means given us over time upon time, some of us become world bridgers.  Our calling and our choice may never be known by anyone, but as my “new age” friends were fond of mentioning, we are anchors.  By our presence and by our thoughts we “anchor” certain energies within worlds and these places of power often remain untapped for millennia.  Then we come back and we find these ancient treasures that belong to us, and we learn how to use them and expand them.  Sometimes they can give us enough power to rise up into public awareness and create waves of changes.  Think Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr. – individuals with charisma, with the power of compassion: such doesn’t just happen, nor does it happen overnight.  Long, long planning and many lives go into building such awareness.  Does it make any difference?  It can, for those who observe, listen and act on their own wisdom as the above vision demonstrates.

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Nebuchadnezzar’s Dream: the Statue, Then and Now

Book of Daniel — The Vision, old and new.

 (Another vision from    ~burning woman~   by Sha’Tara)

The books called the “Bible” are not difficult to understand, least of all those who deal with dreams.  But so much darkness has been cast upon the words by would-be interpreters, by greedy fools; by writers of bad fiction, but mostly by Religion, that it takes careful re-reading to “get it” if one is looking, say, for information in prophetic writings of long ago.  An open-minded person, educated enough and perhaps with a degree of wisdom can get much valuable information from that maligned and misunderstood book.

A case in point:  The prophet Daniel lived during the Babylonian Jewish Diaspora, circa 530 BC.  During the reign of Nebuchadnezzar, the king had a dream of a majestic statue that had a head of gold, chest and arms of silver, belly and thighs of bronze, legs of iron and feet partly of iron and partly of baked clay.

 While he was looking and admiring this colossal statue, “a rock was cut out but not by human hands. It struck the statue on its feet of iron and clay and smashed them.  The statue collapsed and was reduced to broken pieces, like chaff and the wind swept them away…”

Daniel (Daniel 2:31) interprets the vision according to his information at the time.  The interpretation, except for the last part, is now ancient history.  Babylon fell, as did the other empires symbolized by the statue.

 The vision remains as a reminder that “history” repeats.  There is a new interpretation of this vision, which I will share because I have had a similar vision, but to do with these times, not those of 2500 years ago.

My vision has to do with the corporate world, banking, the military industrial complex, medical and prescription drugs cartels; energy and food empires built on aggressive exploitation of natural resources, including the ubiquitous usage of human slave labour.  It speaks of hierarchies and bureaucracies.  The head of gold is those who lord it over these powersdictators of empires, CEO’s and elitist fat cats on the boards of directors: the richest men on this world.  Most of the statue’s energy flows up there and there is not enough left to make the entire statue of gold, nor would those at the top allow that! 

 So must come the next echelon of “leaders” – those who are represented by the chest and arms of silver.  These too are rich, and have a greater “reach” than those at the top.  The second layer of power: politicians, heads of various military and security state agencies, despots of all kinds in politics, religion, business, “mobs” and families; heads of charitable” (read tax-free) organizations – all those whose positions depend on those at the top but are autonomous from those below them.

 Then come the bureaucracies – the “belly and thighs” of the statue – those entrusted to make it work; to suck the energy from the bottom and move it to the top.  The mid-level corporate managers, the bean counters… and those qualified to “have the great ideas” and push corporate fanaticism through advertising, etc.   Professionals of all stripes, research and development scientists, teachers, doctors, lawyers and judges, law enforcers, local bank managers, on it goes.  Those who must believe and push because they have sold their souls to the upper parts of the machine; because it makes them comfortable, relatively rich and feeling safe.  

 Finally come the feet of the statue, those who support and feed it: the working class.  There is some iron in them, which means they actually believe in the ponderous contraption they laboriously and pointlessly support with their faith, their hopes, their love even… and ultimately, their mindless laboring and ignominious, pointless death.

But it must end, as all things that have grown out of balance; as have all empires in the past.  And in the collapse of this monstrosity, most of those who support it must, of course, die with it and their remnants will be swept away by “the rock cut out, but not by human hands.” 

In my vision the “rock” is nature turning against man in a final showdown in which only the planet can win.

There was more to my vision:  I saw beyond the pollution storm of environmental destruction; beyond spiritual corruption and mental bankruptcy

I saw what remained beyond civilization’s collapse; what had survived in underground testing labs; what was dead to feelings and could never understand empathy: I saw the rise of the Cyborgs.  Human machines gradually taking over because they needed so little “natural” energy to operate on.  They could live in a poisoned environment.  They could reproduce themselves, repair themselves and even evolve through trial and error processes using old and new technology and what they had absorbed from brief interactions with non-earth people who had shown up during the catastrophic destruction (The ancient “creators” from planet X, Nibiru, perhaps?  It wasn’t clear who these interlopers had been, just that they had made a brief appearance and made a quick exit.

 

These Cyborgs, I saw, were determined to hunt down and kill the last surviving “true” humans on this world for they sensed them as dangerous competitors.  Well, not surprising.  They had, after all, the “memories” of the pre-Cyborg human race.  A necessary part of their awareness, their programming.   They understood that if the humans survived, the many battles would go to the Cyborgs but the final war would be won by the surviving humans… and history repeats itself!

Oh well, hints of “Terminator” and other sci-fi stories and movies.  But in these confused times where nothing, anything or everything can be believed, or believed “in”… who’s to say what is fiction, what is prophecy?

I would not offer my dreams and visions as prophecies — just some food for thought.  Something to help us “slow down” and do a bit of thinking outside the box. Nor is this about taking a stand for survival: there is no surviving earth.  This world has evolved itself as a treadmill; an exercise machine for Earthians.  When our time’s up we have to take off our sweaty exercise stuff, shower and dress appropriately for “out there” and exit the “club”…

 “And what’s “appropriate”? someone might ask. 

 Depends on what’s “out there” for you.  Think: why have you done all that exercising all those years?  What was your purpose?

To live a life, I suppose” would be one answer.  “I really have no idea” would probably be the most common reply.

“How could anyone possibly know what’s out there?” someone else may add

 All they’d get for answer to that is a smile and a reminder that it’s all on their destination ticket.

 “I don’t have a destination ticket” another may challenge.

The answer to that is, that’s not a choice.  Everyone has a destination ticket.  All are born with it and it’s a part of one’s entire life.  Perhaps now would be a good idea to locate it and read the fine print.  Who knows but what one’s life lived without due care and attention may have caused to be written on the “admission” side of the ticket? 

 

Questions and dreams

…dreams, from   ~burning woman~ …by Sha’Tara

Questions that have remained unanswered for me: should dreams be shared with others?  Should they remain as “private” information?  Are they meant to explain other realities to individuals, or to collectives?  Are they part of the the great “collective unconscious”?  Information given by “others out there” as warnings?  Or simply how our memories, when the body is resting, are re-formatted by the mind to be stored in permanent “hard disk” space?

And speaking of space, I like to think that dreams are like space: if it’s only for me, what a waste!
 
Especially if one has spent a lifetime learning how to dream, how to retrieve the information imparted there, even something as simple as remembering them.  Especially after learning to assimilate day-time and night-time information to create a whole new paradigm of understanding.
 
So, about those dreams:
 
Some time ago I had a wild and crazy series of dreams – could have been just one dream covering many scenes and sequences too.  The main part takes place on a meadow and grassy fields bordered to the east by a barb-wire fence, to the north by oil refineries on a river and to the west by open country.
 
I stand at the south, facing north.
 
The skies are slate grey, dark.  A violent storm is blowing, but not a normal wind storm, or hurricane, though the movement of the air is just as great or worse.  Best comparison would be a wind tunnel with a giant fan.  The “wind” is blowing from the west, carrying anything and everything with it.  Nothing is left standing in its path.  I see grass, trees, clothing, unrecognizable material things and sheep.  Yes, sheep.  Blowing in the wind and being thrown violently into the barb wire fence.  One is still alive and struggling to free itself but cannot.  It has a reed branch pushed sideways through its nose and is trying to push it out with its hoof, unsuccessfully.  Gradually, the animal is “emptied” until only a head and skin are left hanging on the wires.  White strips of clothing are also ripping and tearing from the barbs and blowing away.
 
I hear voices, as of people talking from a distance.  They are speaking of a “pollution storm” and how they should have known it was coming and done something about it.  Then I realize that the “sheep” are really people, or better put “sheeple” — who did not care, did not hear, refused to hear and are now being ripped apart by this “storm” that is anything but natural.
 
I hear the voices again and they are saying: “We thought the Middle East would have invaded and taken over by now.  Wonder why they have not?”  But as I looked to the oil refineries, especially at the tall stacks painted a dark, dull, red and black, I notice the lettering on them is Arabic.  And again, I realized how the “take-over” was done, not by ordinary people from the Middle East, but by the oil consortiums and I see the connection between the refineries blowing their smoke into the air, and the “pollution storm” that is destroying everything.
 
I’m unable to truly portray the intensity of this event.  I remember feeling a sense of deadness, of deep sadness, knowing that for years the people had been warned of something like this; knowing that it was all preventable with a bit of common sense, some sacrifice and will-power.  But the people had been led down the garden path of commercial lies; of bodily comfort at any price and had never learned to reach out to the oppressed who supplied the pre-pollution storm “good life”.
 
So, I think such a dream is really a prophecy in simple symbols. 
 
The next dream:  I am standing in space looking up.  I see the moon and the earth further out, at about the same distance away as I am from the moon.  Both are incredibly beautiful, reflecting fully the light of the sun.
 
The information I have is that the moon’s orbit has begun to decay and in a short time the moon will lose it’s ability to remain aloft and go crashing into the earth.  Again voices, people around me talking.  We have decided to attempt to “prop-up” the moon’s orbit to prevent it from crashing into the planet.  In my hands and around me are “spacers” – those flat metal objects we use in venders to correct the spacing between different sizes of cans or bottles and prevent double vends or jams.  I’m looking at these familiar things and working out a plan to use them in this endeavor.
 
Then I begin to understand the significance of these “spacers” — I am not standing “in space” but observing from a space station, or space ship.  The “spacers” are us, not the objects.  We have come together as people of “space” to prevent a catastrophe, if possible. 
 
Our feelings are quite normal, professional you might say.  No fear, no excitement, no despair.  It’s as if this situation is not uncommon and we’ve done this before.  It’s just a matter of calculating the forces and creating new force-fields to replace those that are collapsing.  Yet we are not calloused about the situation and we know that much depends on the people of the planet if it is to survive.  We cannot do this thing alone.  We can provide the technology but we cannot “DECIDE” the outcome, that is we cannot provide the collective planetary will energy that is absolutely necessary for the success of our efforts on behalf of the people of earth.  And we certainly feel empathy for all the life involved here.  The empathy is not, for the most part, reciprocated from the planet’s surface.  And our chances of success correspondingly diminish.
 
After I woke up and shook off some of the heavier energies surrounding this event I realized once more how much “detachment” is mis-understood here.  Earthians hear “detachment” and sense “I don’t care”.  But as the dream showed, the “spacers” (including me) who would save this world cared a great deal more than the people on the planet.  They could really care because they were detached about the outcome.  They had nothing to lose or gain, whether they failed or succeeded.  Either way, they would go on to other duties in “space”.  So… they could focus on the problem fully.
 
Many more details, other events in-between, but this is already too long a read for most.

     The Star Dancer

       I have no recollection of having posted this very short story.  If I did, it would have been many months ago, and “followers” have changed drastically since.  If it is a repeat for you, just ignore, although I have made some edits.  thank you.                                               

                                                               a short story by  ~ Sha’Tara ~

One could almost say she had the characteristics of a winter bird without stretching the comparison.  A killdeer on a windswept dune in December heard only after darkness covers the shores, that would describe her presence. 

Slim of build, almost translucent of skin, she could stand in perfect stillness beside a doorway and remain unseen by those passing in and out.  Generally silent, there was a quality to her voice that demanded stillness and silence.  Not from weakness nor self-pity, her way of remaining in the background was her means of allowing her to observe the world, voicing some of her thoughts little more than the occasional soft word.  She could just as easily remain alert and active for long hours without apparently tiring.  Never was she seen indulging food or drink beyond a body’s basic needs.  Her pleasure, and she radiated pleasure, did not emanate from satisfying carnal desires. 

She was not what would be called pretty, but she was truly beautiful, with the movements of a small wild animal raising its head to look inquisitively at the world; with the velvety touch of an angel.  And what to say of her attire?  She wore no makeup and draped herself in the simplest of styles, in second-hand clothes.  If asked why she didn’t spend more on herself, she’d smile, as if shyly, and shrug.  “It doesn’t go with the innocence of children,” would be the extent of her explanation on the subject. 

Certainly, the innocence of a child would have described her.  She was called naïve by some.  To that she’d reply, “Do not confuse naïvety with innocence.  I choose to remain innocent.  It is my way of counteracting the many grave faults of this man’s world.  Do not make the mistake of thinking I am unaware of what goes on here or helpless to do anything about it.”  Only then did her voice take on the severe tone of the Teacher, a tone of voice loaded with implications which none but the awakened caught.

She was an empath.  Compassionate.  When she interacted with strangers, she mostly smiled and helplessly, they would smile back at her and then at one-another.  All children who met her were attracted to her, that is until the time when their innocence was forcibly taken from them.  Then she faded from their eyes and their memory.  They will not remember her until they get old and tears will roll down their lined faces in realization of what they had encountered; what they could have learned; how much it could have changed their lives.  

There were tragedies in her life as in every life.  Through it all, she brought hope and comfort where none existed.  That was her nature — to give, not to take.  It was as if she gave her own flesh and blood to those in need.  She “fed and clothed” by what she did not spend on herself – that was one of her “open” secrets.  But with each sorrow, her translucence increased.  A dawn would come to finally dim her starlight beyond earthly recall.

It didn’t matter what they called her, I recognized her from times before time.  She was of the Star Dancers; those whose home is the infinity of the Cosmos; who scatter themselves as stardust over myriad of worlds and touch the lives of countless others.  Sadly, yes, some of us get lost and for long periods, sleep in forgetfulness.  Our memories of the Star Dancer are but myths in the conflagration of time that burns within our confused minds.

But she did come.  A speck of dust on the wind, perhaps, but she appeared on our horizon, burning off into the skies like a meteorite. 

What does that matter now that she is gone, you may well ask?  What matters is, she came, scattered a bit of magic stardust and there was joy where none was to be had; there was hope where despair had held sway. 

What matters is, I can now remember and continue to do some of what she began.  How could anyone forget such a passing?  How could anyone mourn?  How could anyone who ever encountered her not make a supreme effort to remember? 

 

Sha’Dow Dream Weaver

       [poem by  ~burning woman~  ]

We’ve only just met, so you believe
But I’ve known you for many long years
Watched you grow, watched you develop
Seeing your follies and bewilderments
As your body dragged you into puberty

I made certain you would never see me
Hiding in the shadows that encompassed
Your days, your events, your wet dreams
I sent others to waylay you, to seduce
Desiring to know what you would do

Now I reveal myself to your wondering mind
To your wandering eyes and thoughts
Who is she, you think, can I trust her
You question yourself as you fall deeper
Into my siren image from dream-time lust

It’s simple to pretend we’ve never met
I certainly can and for you it’s true
You only saw me in your adolescent dreams
Dreams I gave you, fed you, for anticipation
Now I manifest from shadows: take me

 

Arithmetical or Numerological Sequence +3 and +6 from a dream

Can somebody explain this to me?  Who is the math wiz who can decipher the following?  

Here goes, interesting apparently endless sequence of repeating numbers 3 and 6 given to me in my dreams.  I got up at 4 AM one morning to try it out on a calculator, then I typed it out on the computer when I found out it worked.  I stopped at 258, as you will see, but it seems to go on forever…

When you add the numbers within each sum result, i.e.,  84=12=1+2=3  or 249=15=1+5=6  you always get the same sequence of 3, 6, 3, 6, 3, 6 all the way.  Check it out.  What fascinates me is that the numbers within the resulting sum number (main number) when added together always add up to 3 and 6 and 3 and 6 repetitively.

Those of you in arithmetic and numerology, do you know what this sequence is?  If it is a legitimate sequence, is it known, and does it have a name?

Some interesting totals that show up: 33, 66, 111, 222.   Obviously 444 (12) and 555 (15) will have to appear if one continues.

   1+2=3, +3=6, +6=12 +(1+2)=15, +(1+5)=21, +(2+1)=24, +(2+4)=30,

+(3+0)=33, +(3+3)=39, +(3+9=12=1+2)=42, +(4+2)=48, +(4+8=12=1+2)=51, +(5+1)=57, +(5+7=12=1+2)=60,

+(6+0)=66, +(6+6=12=1+2)=69, +(6+9=15=1+5)=75, +(7+5=12=1+2)=78, +(7+8=15=1+5)=84, +(8+4=12=1+2)=87,

+(8+7=15=1+5)=93, +(9+3=12=1+2)=96, +(9+6=15=1+5)=102, +(1+0+2)=105, +(1+0+5)=111, +(1+1+1)=114,

+(1+1+4)=120, +(1+2+0)=123, +(1+2+3)=129, +(1+2+9=12=1+2)=132, +(1+3+2)=138, +(1+3+8=12=1+2)=141,

+(1+4+1)=147, +(1+4+7=12=1+2)=150, +(1+5+0)=156, +(1+5+6=12=1+2)=159, +(1+5+9=15=1+5)=165,

+(1+6+5=12=1+2)=168, +(1+6+8=15=1+5)=174, +(1+7+4=12=1+2)=177, +(1+7+7=15=1+5)=183,

+(1+8+3=12=1+2)=186, +(1+8+6=15=1+5)=192, +(1+9+2=12=1+2)=195, +(1+9+5=15=1+5)=201, +(2+0+1)=204

+(2+0+4)=210, +(2+1+0)=213, +(2+1+3)=219, +(2+1+9=12=1+2)=222, +(2+2+2)=228, +(2+2+8=12=1+2)=231,

+(2+3+1)=237, +(2+3+7=12=1+2)=240, +(2+4+0­)=246, +(2+4+6=12=1+2)=249, +(2+4+9=15=1+5)=255, +(2+5+5=12=1+2)=258…

So, what am I looking at there, if anything?   

Talking to Noone

       [a short story]

It was dark.  Night actually.  Sometime in the night.  I heard a voice, best described as spectral.  I am dreaming, I thought as I tried to wake up but I was already awake, obviously, or I was dead.  Deep in the silent night it’s often difficult to know if one is alive or dead.  Especially when in your mind you have become convinced that “death” is just another form of life, one you’re not quite yet comfortable with. 

So let’s say I was alive then, as you would understand that to mean, that I was in a body, and that body was actually functioning.  I could move with it, or make it move things.  That kind of being alive.  For the record.

The voice trembled some.  It was difficult to place in terms of gender, or age. It was the voice of an old male child who never quite gained its adult voice.  The voice of someone who had done a lot of smoking, perhaps died from it.  Again, what does that mean… nothing.  And I was dead wrong in my evaluation so let’s not spend more time on that. 

“I would tell you of things you should know ere this night ends.”  Said the voice.

“Who are you?” I had to ask, you understand.  It’s simple human curiosity.  We always want to know whom we’re addressing (or undressing, but that’s another topic.)   

“I am Noone” the voice said.  It pronounced it “Noo Nee”

“What sort of language is that?”  I asked.

“It isn’t a language, it’s a statement.  I am a statement.  I am supposed to be read, not heard.  This is terribly inconvenient.”

“You’re telling me!” I exclaimed, somewhat exasperated.

“Yes, indeed I am telling you.  That’s why I’m here, to tell you.  But I’d rather be read.  Can you read me?”   

“No, I can’t.  You’re a being, (and I thought, I sure hope so!) not a book, or a parchment or scroll.  You can’t be read.  Spell your name for me, I’m confused by it.”

“No one.”

“Ah well, there you see, you got it wrong in the pronunciation.  It is no one.  That’s not a name, it means you don’t exist.  You are no one.”

“I know.  That’s why I keep telling you I’m meant to be read.  I can articulate only what I can read.  I don’t have a spoken language, only a written one.  I am from a written world.  We are not a language, or even languages.  We are words, we exist only in words, sentences, paragraphs, and of course the more advanced of us exist in stories.  I’m just a word construct.” 

“So how can you make a voice, then?  How can I hear you audibly?  How can you articulate, as you put it?”

“How could I answer that?  Perhaps putting words together creates certain images and looking at those images, sound emanates in the mind of certain beings?  Perhaps… wait… perhaps when I’m near you I’m no longer Noone, I mean no one, but actually someone, or some one?”

“You mean like a living ghost?  A “for real” ghost?” 

“I cannot read ghost.  I do not relate.  Perhaps we word beings do not know of your ghost concept.  If I were a ghost, what could I do?”

“Well, not much.  You could haunt places, make ghoulish sounds and scare the bejeesus out of credulous people.  Come to think of it, this would be a good time to try it out.”

“A-good-time.  You want me to be happy?”

“Oh, don’t be so literal.  No, I mean it’s Halloween.  It’s believed that ghosts come out on Halloween and do all sort of mischief, or scare non-ghost types.  Ghosts are spirits of the dead, some long ago, some recent.  Some ghosts are demons from fire worlds.  It is believed they can be nasty.  They can even rob you of your soul and when you die to have to become one of them.”

“Not a good time, then.  Not a good time at all.  I don’t think I want to be a ghost.  I think I would scare myself and that would be very inconvenient.”

“Speaking of inconvenient, what was so important that you had to wake me up for, and we had to go through this whole mishmash of weird introduction?”

“Oh, yes.  I almost forgot, but I can’t forget, I’m words after all.  I’ll read myself to you.  You are Anson Jones.  You are going to be thirty three years old on October 31.  You have made your living from words, having written several novels and three books of poetry.  All your income has derived from the use of words.  You are a very fortunate man.  On midnight of October 31 this year you have qualified, from your life-long use of words, to become a word being.  You will be translated into a book.  But not just any book.  You will become the most important book on Word World.  You will, in fact be so important, you will be published as a trilogy. You will enjoy a long shelf life in every library on Word World. 

That has never happened on Word World and the anticipation is heating up, a river of ink needed to maintain written word speculation on what your entry will do to our social life, our economics, our very encyclopaedic space.  Some articulate it as a revolution.  Some write that it is an apocalyptic event.  A few crazy word splitters even write that you are he who was predicted to come; that you will bring us into a third dimensional state of consciousness.

So, Mr. Anson Jones of Earth, we shall all await your arrival with bated breath – as a figure of speech of course, we do not breathe as such, we write it.  Thank you.”

“What can I say to that?  Nothing.  I went back to sleep thinking it was a silly dream after all.  Was I surprised when I woke up this morning and realized I could not speak, that I could only write my thoughts down?  Not really.  I just know I used the word “inevitable” a few too many times in my novels.  It was sure to turn and bite me in the ass sooner or later.