I have not cried so hard in a long time, certainly not as the result of watching something crafted by Hollywood, and not as a result of my human interactions either. It was not a few wavering tears. It washed out from me, my heart quaked, I was suspended in near-wakefulness, utterly unable to pull myself from the flood of emotion, blankets piling up on me, the sadness and overpowering beauty. The moment came when everyone, in reverence to the deceased who I have an impression of as an old, grandmotherly woman, stood up from their places, not longer held back by the petty grievances of the living, and bowed deeply to that black and white image of her, which hung above our heads, but was angled down as if she did not to want to leave us. I was in the person of a mute, middle-aged, asian man wearing glasses and with spikey stubble accenting my chin. I bowed to her, and as I came parallel to the ground a rush of heartache shot through my torso and the body-wracking sobs began. "You are gone forever," I heard a voice in my head say. I never imagined that I would cry at someone's death. It is something that I have thought about before, but the whole phenomenon seemed to me to be an aspect of manner, an outward display of respect, and that people who cried might not cry if it weren't so expected of them. The shock of death would leave me stunned, unable to know how to react, speechless. I would not cry.

The sobs which came were different than anything I had ever experienced before. I had never woken up crying. It was possibly the most gentle transition from sleep to wakefulness I have ever had, which explains why the dream is so clear in my memory even now. I was still sobbing, and did not know whether or not I should still myself; the rational part of my brain had shrunk to a pinhole sized light, nearly powerless against the forces which had control over me, I could not stop even if I had wanted to. I wondered whether I wanted to stop, because the whole feeling was one of tragic release, I was made clean again in the warm shower of those tears. When the dregs of emotion departed, I did not move for a moment. Had I actually been crying? I did not feel tears streaming down my face. I reached up and touched my eyes. Tranquil pools had formed, cupped by the gentle slope of my eyes toward the nose. And I felt happy, and amazed at everything, at the sheer, true power of what it was that moved me.

I was mute, a member of a group of three other asians who, although being mute as well, sat in chairs facing away from the image of the woman. Also in the room were a few white people, and more entered the room as the dream developed. At first the meaning of the whole gathering was unclear; I was not aware of the image or of the fact that the woman had died until later on. But the feeling was that of a silent trial, in which the asians were being charged with their ethnicity. As the whites moved in, they cast scornful looks at us and freely disparaged us. But we had a defender among the whites, a young woman, who stood at the opposite corner of this very small meeting space, in a position where she could meet the other whites as the moved into the room from the shadows, and expressed with passionate concision that we should not be discriminated against suchly, as she spoke she moved her hands pleadingly, reaching out, gathering them back, reaching out again. The whites looked uncomfortable as they walked past her, they had to in order to get to their chairs, and some of their hateful rhetoric subsided. They stared at the asians sitting facing them in chairs, not trusting. I remember what the cue was. The woman who had been speaking for us suddenly prompted us to recall what we were all here for. Everyone rose and turned toward the picture of the woman hung on the wall, and bowed. I did not know this woman, so my presence seems to be a mystery, and the other asians apparently had no special connection with her either. But as I bowed I realized that this was a great woman, we had lost a great lover of people, and in that moment bricks and mortar came crashing down, we submitted ourselves to the greatness of that person, and the sadness of her loss broke out in my understanding.

I don't know if the events leading up to the bow had to do with the emotion which stemmed from it. I don't understand the dream. But I feel that this is one of those dreams which I will remember forever. I was devastated. In this comfortable life that I live I cannot say that I have ever felt thusly reduced to despair at a loss. As I cried, people turned around to look at me, but no one came to console me, no pats on the back, no shoulders to lean on. But I was comforted even more by the respectful distance everyone gave me as I stumbled across the room with my hands in my face, cutting the rows of chairs for the asians and the rows for the whites neatly in half. I did not want to receive artificial comfort, I did not want someone to tell me that things would be alright, I did not even understand the origin of my reaction and refused to ascribe a contrived reason for it. It was in this state of not-knowing that I came to my senses in the real world.