UPDATE: September 2010

Life is perceived to be real to mortal man. Could life be, however, merely the musing of a spiritual soul? Is a soul's metamorphosis into human form a mere journey into another dimension to learn from an adversarial planet called, "earth"? Finally, is it possible that our interpretation of our "life" is but a highly evolved eternal spirit's manifestation that they call, "a dream"? Perhaps life and death is connected by a "wormhole" from a distant, but yet to be understood, dimension of time and space. Could The Red Sine Rumor be the key to the mystery of life? Do we cling to a Melted Dogie as a frightened child might? You are about to enter the eleventh dimension. Be careful, be... very... very...careful, your life, such as it is, may depend on it!   

~ William B. Stanford ~

            Suddenly, with crippling fright that seemed to accelerate exponentially, he opened his eyes realizing the enormity of what his life had become. He awoke, shaking terribly, because he had dreamed that he was falling down into a black, never ending abyss. But this, disconcerting dream, was somehow different from the ones he had as a child. This dream, however, changed in mid flight and seemed more like he was floating in a huge cavernous place void of any light.  In his tight-fisted right hand was a childhood plastic figurine of a calf, a toy he cherished. Even though it had been badly scarred in a hot fire it served as a metaphorical security blanket when his greatest fears exploded in his mind. The falling sensation stopped, but the experience was overwhelmingly unnerving and the fright seemed crippling. As most children experience dreams of falling in their sleep this one seemed so unlike any he had ever experienced before. His heart was beating ferociously in his chest and he could feel his rapid pulse pounding in his neck as the blood coursed its way to his head. The tepid beads of perspiration forming on his head contradicted the clammy feeling that shrouded his body. His breathing was rapid and the initial stage of hyperventilation had been set in irreversible motion. Each breath felt more and more inadequate and the vicious cycle rapidly continued as he tried to breathe deeper and deeper. Each attempt to expand his lungs seemed woefully inadequate. His chest felt the pain of the struggle for life and the oxygen needed to sustain it. Panic began to flood him as he gasped for air. An anxiety attack was beginning to take over his tortured mind. Rational thinking had been replaced by terror filled thoughts. Soon, the emotional tidal wave would affect his body with physical symptoms that would convince him that death was imminent. He became agonizingly aware that the flow of adrenaline had permeated every cell of his being. Panic had been an unwelcomed visitor for more times than he wished to acknowledge. He used the relaxation techniques that he had learned from his years of therapy. The heightened and crippling wave of anxiety was beginning to ebb and he was getting control of his dreaded demon. He felt his sopping wet hand on his forehead as he tried to wipe away the beads of perspiration that had formed. It was an all too familiar sensation that tormented his daily life. Typically, when his eyes opened in the morning one of his first thoughts was, Will this be a day free of terror? Gradually, he began to feel more in control of his emotions and he was becoming reacquainted with how he perceived normal people must feel.  Then, bits and pieces of his dream began to play hide and seek with his conscious mind.  Did I do it? He thought to himself, or did I imagine it? He could still feel the sensation of his quick beating heart knocking forcefully on the inside of his chest wall. His confusion grew as he became more wakeful and the cobwebs of sleep began to peel away from his consciousness.  As he looked around, trying to get his bearings, he realized something was eerily wrong. Very wrong. His surroundings were as he remembered it to be when he fell asleep and yet at the same time it was peculiarly different. Even the lighting in the room was different, yet strangely similar. Then, suddenly with no warning, he felt calm and everything seemed so serene. Alarmed by the suddenness of his emotional metamorphosis, he placed his right forefinger onto the outside of his left wrist to measure his pulse. An obsessive compulsive practice he used frequently to reassure himself that his heart wouldn't accelerate so much that it would explode in his chest. Nothing! He felt no pulse. This is crazy, he thought, your pulse doesn't just go away. He searched for another place to test his pulse and still found nothing and inexplicably was okay with not pursuing it further. His obsession seemed no longer of paramount importance, but why wasn't it? And then, unexpectedly, his thoughts became crystal clear and he remembered what had occurred. It wasn't a nightmare after all. It happened and it was real, all too real. He felt he had no control and this was predestined as if it had been written in the stars by a higher power than him. His free will had no say in what had taken place. The plan had been carried out to the letter and he was merely the actor in this malevolent cosmic play. It was done and nothing he could do would change the outcome. Then, the panic monster, as he referred to it, threatened to reappear again so he focused on the soothing and comforting song his grandpa sang to him whenever he had a sleepover at Grandpa and Gradma's  house and experienced night terrors. In his head he pictured the words his grandpa sang to him,

As I went a-walkin' one mornin' for pleasure,
I spied a cowpuncher  come ridin' along;
His hat was throwed back, and his spurs was a-jinglin' and as he approached,
He was singin' this song.

Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,
It's your misfortune and none of my own;
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,
You know that Wyoming will be your new home.

He closed his eyes and fell into a deep meditative state, relaxing the grip on his melted dogie, and could only see an afterimage of a red sine ~.