A man dreams of a better life than he has and then wakes. Zhuang Zi at least comforted himself with the thought that he could be a butterfly or a philosopher. This man looks at his life and its course and wishes only to dream for the rest of his life. This of course is impossible but he retires from public life to a hovel and spends his days scribbling about his dream life, he hangs portraits and maps all about the place, he writes detailed concordances of his loved ones, his conquered enemies, his lavish wealth, and he does this all with such a fever that he retires soon after sundown and lives for hours at a time. He becomes neglectful of himself and the bedsores appear but still he carries on dreaming. As he dies, the dreams are more vivid, the experience ever more euphoric. He is convinced he will die in his sleep and while his body is interred he will remain in the realm of his dream, ever triumphant and joyful. His friends pound upon the door. Vermin crawl about him. This is his last night—they find him dead, his eyes immobile. But dream-time is so dilatory, his friends wonder: could he live forever in that last instant of life? Though it’s over, they mourn him not, for they talk about the infinitude of his dream life approaching death, the lifetimes more he gained just before dying, all in the bliss he chased for years in this rank apartment among thieves, wrapped tightly under torn quilt and shuttered eyelids, and the calm pall of his own sleeping mind.
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