A dream

Last night I had a strange dream. I don’t usually dream, at least I don’t usually remember having dreamed, but this dream was so particular that I woke up remembering every detail.
I dreamed I had died peacefully and gone straight to heaven. That in itself was not strange. It was to be expected with the righteous life I have led and with the faithfulness I have always followed the rules of state and religion. What was surprising however, was the fact that I did not like it. Right away, waiting in cue to be admitted by Saint Peter, who was taking his time consulting several heavy and obviously very old ledgers, I had the funny feeling that once he saw it was me, he might reject me after all. I was experiencing that same shortness of breath one gets before an important examination, which I then however dismissed as probably being the consequence of the great height of Heaven’s location. But I soon realized that, being dead, I should not be breathing anyway and, calmed down a little, I was soon welcomed and shown inside without further ado.
I cannot say it was as happy an experience as I had been promised it would be. To start with, right away on arrival two large and heavy wings were attached to my shoulder blades, which made me wonder what they were for since I had never in my earth-bound life learned to fly, and being in heaven, where did I need to fly to anyway. I was stripped naked by a huge and menacing angel wearing a flaming sword, which had me worrying about being burned until I realized that accidents do not happen in heaven. Comforted also by the obvious fact that angels, especially large and burly ones like my assistant have no reproductive appendix, I remained calm while being dressed in a long white tunic of gauzy material which did nothing to protect me from the freezing cold up there, and being overly long, made walking nearly impossible on the celestial floor of spongy clouds.
Not that walking was encouraged either, because I was led stumbling to a golden throne adorned with precious stones which when I sat down immediately started to prick into my backside through the thin material of my robe. Around me I observed the host of saved souls who, like me, were sitting very quietly on their thrones, eyes closed as if in a trance, basking in the glow emitted by an old man with a long white beard somewhat higher up on a much more luxurious throne, who, by the brightness of the light that shone from him, I suppose must have been God the father. 
I cursed myself, not audibly of course, being in heaven, for not having brought my polarized sunglasses, but then again, it is not usual to be buried with sunglasses. Luckily the soft organ music coming from the starry cupola above soon lightened my heavenly suffering somewhat. It sounded like something by Sibelius, though I could not be sure. But it definitely was not Bach.
At that moment a small opening appeared in the floor of shifting clouds at my feet, and far below I noticed a dim red glow in the darkness. Supposing that would have to be hell, I impulsively acted on a curiosity which the dead do not usually feel, and peering through the opening, to my amazement saw many figures, both male and female, stark naked and sweating in the heat. It was a large crowd of party animals, adulterers, swingers, bankers, lawyers, journalists, prostitutes, politicians and preachers, all of them my friends or people I had intimately known, and all with horns and a long and agile tail which, being utterly depraved as sinners usually are, they were energetically putting to good and lascivious use on each other. From the depth, the sound of sinfully rhythmic Cuban music drifted up through heaven’s floor and alcoholic fumes from below started to tickle my sanctified nose. I must either have been showing obvious signs of delight at what was taking place below, or thoughts must be being transmitted more easily in the rarified heavenly atmosphere, because then, suddenly, an old but still muscular figure with a grey beard and a bunch of golden keys at his waist, who I immediately recognized as the same Saint Peter who had welcomed me at the gate, appeared beside me and whispered in my ear (although it sounded like he wanted to shout in anger, but shouting is obviously not permitted in heaven) that I was not fit to be there, and had to be thrown in hell instead.
At that moment however I woke up. Pity how that always happens when the good part of a dream is about to start.

Philip ‘Fifi’ Rademaker