Two nights ago, I had a dream of afterlife. I don’t remember why it was why I was there, had I died and if had then how, but I remember very clearly what was it about. Namely, after you die, you were given the option to select the path you take to (….), so that you could once more visit places or moments of your life that you treasure most. I saw people taking different doors from the lobby-like place they wake up after released from their earthly bodies – especially, one old, gray-haired woman slowly straightening up her bent back, rising from her wheelchair and walking through a doorway, to her garden filled with planted flowers and early morning sunshine. Some others just turned away, their faces closed up, said “f*** it all” or something – and took the direct non-stop subway line to (…).
You may freely guess which souls had had a happy life.
Me? I guess I could not decide where to go or whether I wanted to go at all, or that was afraid of the last glimpse of things dear to me. Never got to see what was (…).
Don’t know what happens to those who can’t decide – reminds me of a chinese movie I saw a few years back at the Helsinki International Film Festival – but, last night, I had another dream. This time, I had become a ghost. Hovering among my loved ones but alone.
And, I can tell you there is nothing more sad I’ve ever dreamed. All dreams and plans and futures just erased and replaced with eternal regret, over all the mistakes made and things left unsaid.
Not even the war early this morning, where my main worries were 1) how are all the important players going to make it to the last Camarilla game and 2) will there be deodorant available under martial law.
I suppose I better start learning to make decisions if I don’t want to spend an eternity playing a White Wolf game.
The typhoon ‘Nida’ hasn’t yet arrived.

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