“It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.”
I cannot agree more with Poe’s statement here. Even within the stream of a single lifespan our distant past presents itself often as if it were a dream. One wonders: Is the life of the caterpillar a dream to the butterfly?
Let us entertain the thought that life persists after death (for myself, I believe it does). Just what will we remember of this existence? Will we remember the taste of the foods we enjoyed while we were here? Will we remember the cold sensation of winter breezes, the ancient auburn hue hovering over falling autumn leaves, the perfumed smell of loam-drenched trees after a summer thunderstorm, or the distant melodies of tiny birds greeting spring’s sunny advent?
One thing is certain, if life does persist after the death of our bodies, then Poe—at this very moment, wherever he is out there—knows the answer to our inquiry, and the truth of the above quote of his.
Edgar Allan Poe: January 19, 1809 — October 7, 1849 Happy 211th, dear poet
