After a short pause, we return to the dream of Morgane. Reality and dreams are reflections of each other; they pass desires from one to the other, to bring a direction to our passions. There are moments, however, where reality gives in to the dream so it might start…
I don’t think anyone realizes it’s me. I’m not sure that’s what I want, honestly. That’s my dream; all that I desire is captured in the moment teasing me. I wonder if she can see the shock, the confusion, the frustration in me.
She continues her lecture, leaving the image there for all to see. Still in shadow, she’s almost ethereal there in the distance. Her voice echoes around the hall, questioning the beliefs held about myths, asking why they are as they are, and why they can’t be seen differently, be different from what might be expected.
A question is posed, seemingly to all, but I know it’s meant for me: “What would you do for your dream?”
The smile comes easily as I put the pen down and stop taking notes, the lecture passing out of my thoughts as I consider her question. Is the dream me or am I the dream? I remember her promise to catch me, the delight of what happens in my dream. The last moment of the dream comes to my thoughts, being ever so close to catching her, being with her, being–finally–me.
The projector turns off, plunging the room into darkness. No one is speaking, there’s no light to be found. It should feel awkward, should give a sense of trepidation. I can’t find that within me. The anticipation of what comes next is pulling on me. I want to know more, see more, discover exactly what my dream really means. I want her to catch me once more.
The lights come up and she’s still there. I’m ashamed at the shade of doubt that wondered if this was a dream, too, that she’d not be there, that I’d wake up from another dream into my reality and feel lost once more.
I don’t know how I know, but she’s bemused. There’s a tease in her voice as she outlines the assignment to be turned in. A few questions are asked. Of course, she answers them with questions of her own, mysterious as she has been from the beginning. Then comes one final note for the lass to ponder: “Every dream has value.”
There’s a wave of her left hand and class ends. Many rush out, having other classes soon and seeing no need to ask questions. I can see her watching them leave. Others pass by, thanking her for an interesting lecture and moving on. They are intrigued by her words, but don’t have the dream inside of them.
I want to run to her, push anyone in my way aside. I’m expecting her to be in a rush to leave, to be elsewhere, but she doesn’t move from her place at the podium. She’s waiting. It takes me some time to gather my things … and myself.
Descending from the heights, I can see others waiting to speak with her. Some are trying to gain favour, needing a good grade. Others are watching and trying to fit the image of her with the angel against the reality before them. She tends to each and every one who requests–they do not take–a moment of her time. I find a place to wait beside the double doors leading out of the hall. One by one, the others left have their moments and then disappear.
It’s just her and me now. I want to say something but can’t find the words. I want to ask so many questions; not the least is whether this is all real.
The glasses come off, being set on the top of the lectern. Her right hand reaches to the hair band, pulling it away, her mane of wild ebon hair cascading over her shoulders, and then she pauses to wait for me. The words come finally: “Please, show me.”
The air in the hall changes, becoming electric, my hair crackling from the energy. Clouds of white roll in, blotting out the reality I know and replacing it with the dreamscape I see over and over again. Nothing but white clouds around us, a sliver of stone beneath my shoes.
The small, cute, red horns appear in her hair, the long red tail rises up behind her, exactly like in the dream, with a teasing wave. There’s a shimmer around her, a black dress trimmed in red forming, long black gloves adoring her arms. Then her wings appear, deeply black feathers, spread wide, fluttering to show that they are so very real.
The tears come unbidden as she opens her arms to welcome me. Three short strides, we embrace. I’m held in her arms, her wings folding in around the two of us, the scent of cherries in the air. I’m crying in the revelation that this is reality because it is the dream.
I’m not falling … She caught me.