September 27, 1913
I dreamt again last night. Of this madman, this daredevil. The Doctor. Or me, rather. In these dreams, I am the Doctor.
I dreamt last night of my youth. His youth. As I continue to have these dreams it becomes increasingly difficult to separate myself from the Doctor. Having only just woken, my mind still longs to be in that dream world. Under these circumstances, it is even more difficult to differentiate between us.
Not straying from the topic at hand, I dreamt today of my youth. Yet, in my youth I was quite aged. I possessed a cane for a bad back, a habit for smoking a cob pipe, and a charming granddaughter whom I seemed to dote on and adore. While I first believed that perhaps as the Doctor I age backwards, this reoccurring granddaughter image seems to counter that idea. There is no child without life and marriage and conception, and therefore there is no granddaughter without the offspring of the first conception (at the very least) marrying and conceiving as well. I believe this aged state is simply that of a life lived. A life lived quite long, in fact.
Then something happens. Even as the dream has only just ended, I am still confused as to what exactly it was that occurred. Perhaps it is exhaustion; perhaps it is the state of my weakened and aged hearts (pp 3, 12 for references to the double heart imagery). Whatever the reason, I collapse on the floor of my box and I die. Notation: talk to Matron Redfern regarding illnesses affecting the heart, or possible double-heart phenomenon.
In dying I am reborn. A light breaks through my skin and my eyes open anew; alive. I have lost perhaps several dozen years to my appearance, and have both an entirely new visage and a new aspect. The change is something I explain to my companions as "common". More than common it is expected. To this race of people from which the Doctor descends, it appears that this change is something of a right of passage; a change that notes growth, as passing a class or attending one's First Communion.
This dream is perhaps related to a recent class I gave on the history of Catholicism. The Christ-like imagery is undeniable. The Doctor rises from death and in doing so brings hope to the humans over which he watches so unwaveringly. He is among them but not one of them: a protector rather than an equal. Perhaps the Doctor believes he is God. The term "lonely God" springs to mind from this statement, but I fear I do not know its reference as of yet.
Spiritus Post Mortus.
In the dream I remember being entirely shaken by the change, and speaking to the girl known as Victoria (one of the only "companions" of the Doctor I have seen who appears to come from the past rather than the future) about life and death. I state my age at 250 years. Two hundred and fifty! What an impossible age to even imagine, let alone live!
The companion I traveled with at that time was very foolish and did not understand. The inherent loneliness that I felt, being so old and so unusual to the people with whom I traveled, and she did not understand. It is not her foolishness that kept her from understanding, it is the difference in what and who we are. I wonder if any of the many, many people I have seen the Doctor share his magic box with ever understand.
There is tragedy in his inability to connect with the people he cares about most.
The Lonely God. The Doctor.
Ever changing, ever unstable, ever alone.
I can only imagine how much lonelier he must become before he changes into me.
Muse: John Smith / The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 644