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In a university Robin Williams is sitting in front of a bookcase. Others are at desks in the hallway, while some are walking by. Perhaps Robin Williams is a college professor. He has several yellow books behind him and one in his hand. I read the title and was intrigued. Words are jumbled in the dream-state but I remember at least thinking that the title read When I Was Something. Robin had authored this book. At first they all looked the same but then I realized he had written several different volumes with different names, but they all had yellow covers. He was frantically trying to explain what he had written, but though I was listening, it seemed no one else cared. He got up from his chair in the hallway and walked through the crowd of students to a large window. He said something that I do not recall. I turned to my left, away from him, and then back at him. He was now quite unexpectedly stepping through the window and leaping out. It seemed at first we were only a few stories up, but I then realized the school building was at least five or six stories high. The trees and the grass were green, it was sunny and the sky was blue. Robin wasn't screaming or flailing around, but jumping to his death in a carefree manner, like a video game character who falls off a ledge and maintains the same look on his face.
"Good for you, Robin," I said to him, as if I shared his frustrations and was happy he decided to exit this insanity.
I hadn't taken it as a horrific suicide until I turned back to the students, who were now frozen in shock at what Robin had done. It was a suicide after all, and now I couldn't believe I had said, "Good for you, Robin." Robin Williams was gone forever, and now I was angry that no one wanted to listen to him talk about his book.
"You wouldn't listen to him," I said. "These women ruined his life," I yelled, "...the divorce courts..." I berated them for a while and then the dream melded into something else.
"Good for you, Robin," I said to him, as if I shared his frustrations and was happy he decided to exit this insanity.
I hadn't taken it as a horrific suicide until I turned back to the students, who were now frozen in shock at what Robin had done. It was a suicide after all, and now I couldn't believe I had said, "Good for you, Robin." Robin Williams was gone forever, and now I was angry that no one wanted to listen to him talk about his book.
"You wouldn't listen to him," I said. "These women ruined his life," I yelled, "...the divorce courts..." I berated them for a while and then the dream melded into something else.