And There She Shall Not Pass

And the Holy Spirit rubs her breasts against me (as if she were some divine voice), and they are shriveled like the pomegranates of a Torah scroll. And her breaths are rapid (she too knows this is it): So, you want a special miracle just for you?

A dream, half a dream, a quick blink of an eye, fragments of obscure thoughts - and that's it (Source)

I dreamed that the end of the night was approaching. Maybe one more dream, half a dream - and the alarm clock would go off. But I'm so tired, as if I hadn't slept at all and hadn't dreamed anything. And it's not just that I wasted a night (like some secular person without a girl) - I wasted my life. And I ask the Holy Spirit: Can't you make me pregnant? How is it that life passed so quickly? I still remember the taste of the end of summer, when I was little, the longing for freedom just before the vacation ended (which was completely wasted), the remnants of nature that penetrate even the spiritual world, in which we were all imprisoned. Even through the holidays. Say, the thatch in Sukkot. Or the word 'dawn' in the morning blessings (oh, my rooster, who distinguishes between day and night!). And today? Summer is hell. Just let it end.
And the Holy Spirit in my bed leans over me: Are you hot? Is it because you have a fever? Do you want an autumn breeze instead of me?
And I try not to smell the intimate scent of old age, so ancient and rotten coming from her mouth, like putrid parchments, truly the entrance to hell (she hasn't brushed her teeth for at least two thousand years). And I hold my breath and say: I didn't mean to offend. But how everything has changed, how faith has disappeared. And not just faith in God, or in rabbis, or in the shtreimel, or even (God forbid) in "intimacy with the Torah". But faith in art (the medium of faith!), or in secularism, and even in writing itself - I can no longer believe in my own dreams. And if there's one thing that characterizes dreams - it's the lowering of the threshold of belief. The mighty leap of faith becomes a hop between puddles, which as a child I remember as something that simply no longer exists. In a dream, you simply believe everything. Even the biggest secular person believes in the biggest miracles. The world is so natural in a dream.
And the Holy Spirit rubs her breasts against me (as if she were some divine voice), and they are shriveled like the pomegranates of a Torah scroll. And her breaths are rapid (she too knows this is it): So, you want a special miracle just for you?
And I already know how this will end, the disappointment upon awakening, when every morning I suddenly remember the illness upon waking, and immediately after like a hammer to the brain - death, and I say: Yes, I want, come. Come to me tonight! The dream is the world plus faith (if secular people wonder what it's like to be religious). And wakefulness is the world from which faith has been removed (if religious people wonder what it's like to be secular). Therefore, the whole question regarding the afterlife is: Is death an awakening, as for the secular, or sleep, with deep religious dreaming. And therefore, the question of faith determines whether you have a dream after the end - if you have an afterlife in your world. And I lost faith. I became secular, someone who opens a window and lets in the light. Instead of opening a dream and letting in the darkness. Do you hear - I am secular!
And she suddenly recoils, and shudders from her wings to between her legs, that's how it feels, as if your grandmother is trying to impregnate you. And she starts to blow harder and harder, inhaling and exhaling, in a kind of disgust for me, in shivers and prickles, she almost escapes through the window. And I know what she must be thinking: "You?".
And I try to explain, to excuse, the harsh, malicious statement, the questioning on the eve of your bed, pardon me, your death, because any day could be your day of death (and in contrast, death during sleep at night is a kiss of death - the most desirable death). And I beg for my life, for my dreams (and we'll see what his dreams will be!), trying to shake her, to help, or at least to muster the courage to do what I dare not, and I become insolent: Here, yesterday I had a dream: "I dreamed that my funeral was approaching. And it was already so close - that I had the feeling (the illusion?) - that I too would take part in the funeral. And they are coming. A long, long line...". And I simply didn't bother to write it down. What for? Something with the last sentence before my death, that they would quote. Gone to waste. Dead. Deleted. Does anyone know what was written here before I hit delete?
And the Spirit says: I know.
And I snicker: I don't believe you, I don't believe in this romanticism. Do you understand what it's like to be a virgin black hole, that hasn't fulfilled its purpose, that no one has entered yet? That was supposedly open, but - I found a blocked hole?
And the Spirit chokes a little. And I find strength in me to speak: I lost faith in my own writing. Not in writing itself perhaps, but in the reader. Not like the narcissistic whiners of the twentieth century who lost their faith in their ability to write, and faith in language and meaning, and it was such a terrible crisis (whiny and affected and spoiled). Not some nonsense of the philosophy of language. I never lost my power to write, to convey meaning, on the contrary, I conveyed too much meaning, I am at the peak of my strength and mind and spirit before my death throes (and with my spirit my corpse!), but I lost faith in the ability to read. In the reader's ability. In their mind, in their depth and dreaming. It's not just my failure that no one paid attention to me at all - it's a failure of culture. And that's much worse. It means there was no one to write for. Everyone is secular. Even the ultra-Orthodox. Everyone is awake.
And she is horrified, almost like a hurricane in bed: A little modesty!
And I raise a choked voice (I can't really shout like I wanted to): There's no point in being modest just before you fade away, to disappear in a feeble voice. I wasn't a grain, but the peak of a huge mountain of dreams, swept by gusts of wind from the future. But no one climbed to its summit - and the promised land will not be revealed. A point that could have been up high - now disappeared in the desert sands. But I am the head - mountain. Just without the mountain. The head of the dream school, just without a school. And the highest mountain peak without the mountain - is just a black grain, lost in the wind. Yes, be ashamed. Be ashamed!
And the cold touches my bones, even though I'm at forty degrees [Celsius]. I turn to her in bed, with my last strength, but the winds are already too strong. And I can no longer hold on in bed - and fly out the window.