I dreamed that I decided to become a novelist. Surprising myself the dreamer (not myself the person in the dream) I cranked out quite a bit of good dreck that got popular. Then my ambitions increased and I decided to become a great novelist.

I stopped turning out books. I focused on just one book that I kept going over. My goal was to express perfectly how all the different parts of being human fit together into one whole. I discovered that I didn’t know how all the different parts of being human fit together. I would find some gap in my knowledge, spend ages and reams of effort figuring out the gap, and then discover that my new knowledge revealed more gaps. In my dream it was very visual, like I could see the action of the whole novel laid out as a color strip with small and large blobs of gray blur covering portions, blobs which it took the hardest of effort to even get myself to see. Eventually I realized there were gaps I knew about but could not solve, and also gaps that existed but I could not even see. I was old and I gave up and released my novel as is.

Then the very short epitaph to my dream was another guy who just lived his life that took him through all the variety of experiences that he needed to understand perfectly how to be human. It was through no plan of his own, it was coincidence or God, because you couldn’t know what experiences you needed to become perfectly human if you weren’t already. When he was old he sat down and banged out the perfect novel.

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