“Are you afraid of dying?”

Creative thought has eluded me for weeks now. I can’t concentrate on an idea longer than the span of time that it comes to me. And if it doesn’t contain pictures, I haven’t managed to involve myself with a book. It’s a dry spell. One I cannot shake off.

My dreams have taken a turn to the nearly indescribable. I’m lost in the wilderness and happen about two colonies of people on different ends of the island. There is a force—a person?—threatening our well being. I am a stranger on both sides and cannot be trusted. When one camp is attacked, its survivors and interim leader turn to me to guide them to the other camp.

These dreams become sexual the closer I get to waking up.

I share the dream with a stranger online. His/her response is simple. A single question: “Are you afraid of dying?”

I am not afraid of dying anymore than I am afraid of growing older. The inevitable isn’t something to fear.

“Why do you ask?” I respond.

“That’s usually what it means.”

What it means. An amateur dream interpreter has crossed my path.

Maybe dreams are shadows of our subconscious minds, but if it’s subconscious to me, wouldn’t it be harder for someone else to crack the shell of its meaning? Educated guesses, Monica once described it to me years ago. And even then, it’s a stretch. Using educated a bit too loosely for my taste.

In my dreams, it’s the end of the world. Something has happened, and I cannot remember what. I know that my child is alive out there. And I know that I must find him and Jeanna. And I know I must do then what I’m failing to do now. And I search the ruins of humanity, risking myself to save others I don’t recognize or know. And I’m torn between doing what’s right and what’s necessary.

Jeanna told me it was residual build-up, in anticipation of The Walking Dead mid-season finale last Sunday. I responded that I have been marathon-ing Lost this last week. “There you have it,” she said.

And yet, they continue.