An infinity of empty blackness. This chasm of nothingness seems to extend limitlessly. It is otherworldly – it seems to have existed since eternity, before time began, and til after time will cease.
In the middle of the emptiness a row of chairs is suspended, extending on both sides into the distance, further than the eye can see. These chairs are glowing with a soft golden light. They are oddly royal-looking, with high backs and seats made of red velvet, and golden carvings on the edges. Seated in them are human figures. Some are alone, at a distance, while others are grouped. The figures also seem to glow with an internal light… strong, austere and beautiful. They are all men.
In the very centre of the row is a chair larger and more elaborate than the others. In this sits a youngish looking man. His black hair falls to his shoulders. His face, which is handsome beyond measure, glows with a light more beautiful than the others seated there – more beautiful, in fact, than any mortal man could possess. He is wearing a long white robe. In his lap sits a little girl. She is brown-skinned, wearing a short pink frock, and her thick black hair, which the man strokes gently, is cut in a bob. She cannot be older than six. She seems perfectly relaxed in the lap of the great man, and cuddles close to him, while he holds her tenderly. The girl is very happy, content and peaceful. Peeking over his arm, she can see another man a few seats away: tall and bearded, also important-looking, but far more serious and austere. He is looking straight into the distance. She snuggles closer to the beautiful man, who is kinder and whom she loves. She wishes she never has to leave, that she could sit in the lap of this good, gentle man forever.
After a while, or after an eternity, the man stirs, and murmurs something to the little girl. Reluctantly, she slides off his lap. For a second, she stands on nothing, suspended in front of the beautiful man with the radiant face, holding tightly on to his hand. Then, as he gives it one final pat and lets go of it, the black emptiness seems to exert itself. And I find myself falling, falling into the blackness with no way to get back up…falling, uncontrollably, irresistibly into the black pit of oblivion…
Shuddering, I wake up.
Now, dreams can’t be ‘prophet’ic…can they?