A Memorial Candle

Have you ever thought about the connection between dreams and illness?

And he who did not toil / on the eve of Sabbath / shall not eat / shall not eat / on Sabbath (Source)

I dreamed I was very ill, and the Angel of Death came to visit me, paying a sick call, and I say to him: Thank you for coming, sit here in the chair by the bed. Closer. Because it's hard for me to speak. Surely because of the dream. I really appreciate that you came. It's not to be taken for granted.
And the angel says: It's an honor for me.
And I say: You really didn't have to. Forgive me if in my illness, for I did not merit old age, I've become a nuisance. But thanks to you, I no longer need to think about what people think. I had something about people that I thought about at night before falling asleep, but now I can't remember, while sleeping. Have you ever thought about the connection between dreams and illness?
And the angel says: That's interesting.
And I'm encouraged (because interesting might be good): Well, maybe I forgot, a pity for what's lost. Something, it's hard for me to remember, maybe about not needing to be nice and suck up to people? But when was I ever nice and sucked up to people?
And the angel says: Maybe now, on the threshold, actually an opposite insight.
And I say: That I should have sucked up to them? Or at least been nice? That I should have made connections? It's so unlike me that I don't believe that's what I thought about, even before sleep (because suddenly it seems to me it was a very significant insight - just before twilight). Maybe... some life wisdom I have to pass on? But I didn't have a life at all. So what wisdom. All in all, a writer who despises his audience, the audience of the blind [Translator's note: "erim" in Hebrew can mean both "blind" and "awake"], cannot succeed. I have nothing to complain about. Although the truth is I didn't always despise them. Not in the beginning. It's something that accumulated over the years, with sleep, sleep that lasted years. Without even one person who read me. Who encompassed the enormous enterprise. How do I know? I know. I feel it that no one read. That there are whole paragraphs, whole chapters, and maybe even whole books - that no human eye has seen. And only our Father, our King read and judged - and - you know - the verdict.
And the angel says: You think it's a punishment?
And I say: For the audacity? I don't know. Once I thought so. Once I even felt that way (and that's much worse). Once I thought my life went to hell because I did something that's forbidden to do. Something you pay prices for. Even if it's not negative, even if it's actually obligatory, and even a sacred duty, it's simply part of the game - that for such a thing one must die. For example, prematurely. Or be hurt in such a hard way, as a person, that you'll regret it. That you'll understand that as a person - it was too big for you. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away - it was a game that was too big for you, playing with fire. Even if you had to touch the fire. Once I really thought that at least God cared - hence the punishment.
And the angel says: And today?
And I laugh: Today it feels like even God didn't read. And I didn't even get that recognition. Even punishment - at least acknowledges your existence. And from this perspective, your visit actually gives me hope. Maybe I've earned it, maybe there was importance, or at least it's enough to die for.
And the angel laughs.
And I'm encouraged (if he's pleased it's a good sign, right?): Today I think God understands me. It's not simple to do such a thing, like I did, that no one in the world understands yet. No one knows. It's kind of a sweet secret. Although everything's on the internet, as we know. One day they'll say: What fools we were. Or: What fools they were. Yes, the second is more likely. It will take time to understand. You need distance, perspective. Don't think I'm so sure of myself, of course. And it's clear to me that I made many mistakes, countless ones. But even through them - it's hard to miss. Hard not to see. Sometimes I read old things and think that I could never do them today. Who's this genius who wrote this, and how stupid he was to write it like that. Today I would write much better. But I don't have time, and there's no point either, right? There's a limit to how much you can devote to holiness that doesn't spit in your direction. I'm also tired of being an empty circle. Tired of being a zero.
And the angel says: Yes, it's not easy.
And I say: It's not easy at all to be a zero in our world. And especially nowadays. You walk outside, in the few moments you leave the house, and see people walking on the street. People who are going somewhere, you understand. And you look at the sun, they took you in a wheeled bed so you could see daylight, and you remember Ecclesiastes: Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun. For if a man live many years, and rejoice in them all; yet let him remember the days of darkness; for they shall be many. And you think: Here's the sun, it's exactly like me, just the opposite. It's a circle of light, it's my enemy, the opposite pole of being to a black circle. And I go everywhere around my head with a saint's halo, just inverted, a black halo, meaning zero. And don't think people don't see, and don't tell me. My wife for example, tells me every day that I'm a zero. And that when the kids grow up they'll also discover that their father was a zero, and what is she supposed to tell them about me. Because she probably already understands that I won't be here anymore, and only she will have to explain. She has a woman's intuition. I think they have it in their breasts. And say what you will about my wife, she has two enormous breasts. At least something came out of my attraction to circles. I had two good things in life.
And the angel says: Yes, but nothing remains of breasts in the grave. There are no bones. It's a very difficult problem in archaeology. Nothing remains of the most beautiful and important things. Not of thoughts either.
And I say: But I documented everything, everything's on the internet. Even if no one wanted to publish the ten books, still everything is open to the world, whoever needs can come and read. Even if there's no physical remnant there will be a spiritual remnant. And my candle won't go out.
And the angel says: The internet won't be here forever either.
And suddenly I can't take it anymore, and completely lose my composure, and thus seal my fate, of course, because from here it's already clear, no need to say anything more, because I blurt out, and negate the pretense: Isn't it possible that I have more time? I could have managed. What a waste of my mind, isn't it?
And the angel says: No more than Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, or the Ari. Right?
And I have nothing to answer to such a thing.