When to the passion of dreams I bend and yearn, I can lose sight of what is the path. I called to the ancient voices, if there BE any ancient voices, and this what I think I heard. Hard truths, these, and any skeptic may find the hard truths true, even if softened by polite fictions such as we lonely humans make.

I cried to the ancients, and told them of my yearning. I told them how I hated death. ''It has taken One I love, and I do not want it to take more!'' Although it has taken loved ones through out my life, the list gets longer each year, the hurt of losing a Spouse is like no other in its intensity. I received a quiet answer.

Then, another died. Death would do its thing, and I could have no influence. I cried to the ancients again. Were they as the immortal blood drinkers, attached to a body which never changes? Could they give me that gift? Whether their spirits were with bodies, I do not know, but I got the sense that they'd been watching since time began, as long as there were humans conscious enough to know of time.

''We have heard your cries, and it is not for you, this immortality of the flesh! Seek after immortal truths, instead. You will have your immortality, but it will not be of the flesh!'' I felt the ancient whispers. No 'Michael' would come my way, with the gift of magical blood to perserve the body against time's decay. Even if such beings do exist, it was not divine will for me. Hard, that truth, and it slapped me with its earth-bound realization. From the 'dust' I am, and to the 'dust' I will go.

I am the short-lived 'butterfly'. I will flit and fly, explore my worlds, and then I will die. It's as simple as that. But there were other things I sensed, as well. Laura was no ordinary human being. She'd always felt her spirit was an old one. Even with the skepticism that she claimed more and more as she aged, she felt that, though she couched it in human, earthbound terms. She'd experienced 'enough of life', she'd say. There are only so many fine wines, and juicy steaks until they begin to taste the same. ''There are a finite number of things humans can experience, and then it gets old and boring,'' she declared. Thus, for her, she'd want no sip of the spring of eternal youth, such as the fictional Tucks got.

No, not for her, this. And now I sense something different. Again, it may be only hard truths wearing a cloak of easy fiction. But I sense that Laura was no ordinary mortal. Her spirit was not like those of other people. And it wasn't just her transgenderal qualities of which I speak. Her spirit was born in ancient times, she came to earth not as an embryonic soul which is new on its karmic path. Her spirit has returned to that circle of the 'ancients'. She came to the earth because she was called. When her time here was done, when she'd accomplished all that was set here for her to do, she was called back to the realm of the ancients.

I could feel her spirit in among those hushed whispers that gently tried to tell me these things. I have a mission here, as well. I can escape to pleasant fantasies at times, but this is not my purpose, here. No, there are the 'immortal truths' which call me, and it is to these I must give my allegiance. The flesh is but for service of that.

And then a new fantasy called me. In Anne Rice's Blood and Gold, the ancient vampire Marius is drawn to the artist Botticelli. He feels a torment. He loves the artist's work, and he feels a temptation to make an immortal blood drinker out of him, as he himself is. But he pulls himself away forceably.  ''I saw myself taking Botticelli in my arms. I saw myself sinking my teeth into Botticelli's throat. The blood of Botticelli. I thought of it. And my blood, my blood given to him. He would go on painting; he would have the Blood, and his painting would be unparalled . . .''  But he knew he could not do this. He could not interrupt what destiny had meant for Botticelli.

Marius did painting himself. But he always wondered if things from his vampiric vision showed up as unnatural visions in the art. Where there too many details? Humans don't see these details. None of them seemed to see this, and they all liked his art and wanted his portraits.

Still, it made me think. What would the art of an immortal be like? Their every sense is heightened, they don't experience things as a human. What would their art be like? Could it have anything that would speak to ordinary mortals? Or would they only be able to create things that other immortals could understand? Everything about the human experience is so inextricably tied to the vulnerable shortness of it. It's what gives every experience a poignancy. It's what may even drive us to Art. We create visions we hope will survive our mortal bodies. Today, people look at Botticelli's art, created in the fifteenth century, and enjoy his visions. That's part of the whole impulse to create.

Without Death, the great monster, to fight against, where would be our motivation? Would we only create flimsy pretties? Yes, the heart of Marius is made glad by beautiful art, and there would be comfort there. But for visions which an immortal would bring into the world, what would they be without this driving poignancy? I don't know. I can't imagine.

So death remains with me. It hisses at me, as it turns the corner, headed for its next victim. It won't let me forget. My mortal blood will soon be his. And all I have are polite fictions to comfort me. Still I dream, and it is always one dream or another that seduces me. This is unescapable. But you do not see me trying to escape, do you?

So I dream, and I will seek after the 'immortal truths', and I will give my quiet fictions a life of their own, and that will be enough. It will HAVE to be enough.

My sympathies and prayers go out to Anne Rice. My empathy, too. We may be distant 'sisters of the pen' (at least, cousins twice removed), but now we share this, the death of a spouse, as well.

I do not know what I shall write this early morning, between the night and morning, really. Prime time for vamps, I suppose, IF such creatures exist, outside of our imagination. So we have it, this mystery. There as I was writing two days ago, Death ''. . . hisses at me, as it turns the corner, headed for its next victim,'' it had already taken a Victim. But it has victims all over the world. Its impartiality does not keep me from despising it.