The day was bright, sunny and crisp. The crowd had packed into the bullfighting arena, awaiting the next contest between man and beast. I sat on the sun-splashed side of the bowl, thankful for warmth on a chilly day. The matador down in the ring prepares for the oncoming bull, charging at the lonely man as if the hands of hell led it on.
Then, just as the bull reached the matador, it stopped dead in its tracks. As it slid to a stop, and dust sprayed, the matador plunged a long rapier into its back. The bull dropped to its legs, then rose slowly. A handler walked over to the bull, tied a rope around its neck, and led it through the crowd, up and out of the arena. The bull was led down into the arena—I was the only one to get out of the way; I really didn’t want to be near the big beast. Again, the bull charged, and again, the bull dropped. And again, the matador plunged his rapier. The process repeated itself the rest of the day.
I don’t why I had this dream last night. It was so vivid and so unusual a venue. I can’t figure the meaning of it. Is there something ahead of me I need to watch for? Or celebrate?