We return to the story of Morgane once more today. I’m unsure if next week the story will continue or be delayed–the reasons are known to those that matter. It is never a simple decision to touch one’s dream. It is, after all, the moment when one starts …
I’m not sure how long she holds me.
The anticipation in the dream isn’t anything like this moment. I remember the thrill of the fall, the excitement of the chase, and the first waking moment of disappointment when the dream ends.
This isn’t like that.
I’m content in this moment; there’s nothing to fear. This is her world, the one I have dreamed of, felt the desire for over and over again. I can hear the winds stirring the air, the shifting as her wings are teased by them. She speaks softly, I hear the words, my mind accepts them as I’ve accepted her from the first moment of the dream being. She tells of a world of dreamers, the dream they share, the world that I desire. I want to see that world, to know of it, to make the dream sharper in my mind and push closer to her reality and become part of.
Her wings open and I look around to find the clouds are there, the sliver of stone remains, but there’s something just slightly different. The clouds are not all-encompassing; there are gaps here and there through which I can see blue sky above, but that doesn’t hold me. Far below I can see unfamiliar landscape pressing up against a lake. The details are hard to make out, being so far away. It feels like I know this place. The lake calls to me before the clouds roll back in obscuring what I had seen.
I’m unsure what comes next, where this all takes me, yet I’m not concerned. Perhaps I should be, but I can’t find that emotion inside. The dream still holds me, as it always has and always will. I find her so-green eyes and am not afraid, for there is only her love that I have felt in the dream.
My voice is cast upon the winds as I ask how to make the dream real. It seems a simple question and it is the most dire of questions I have ever asked. I know what I hold in my soul, but how to grasp it eludes me. Her reply is, as ever, a question inside of an answer and it gives me pause: Do I know myself?
She’s looking for truth, and I’m not sure what that is or how to find it. “How do you come to terms with yourself, to figure out who you are?” My answer is a shrug of confusion as there’s nothing else I can reply with.
She seems pleased, to see that I didn’t jump at a falsehood. Releasing my hand, she gestures to her side and something appears in her left hand. It takes a moment to figure out that it’s a book. Holding it with both hands, she offers it to me, and it feels like this is the point where there is no turning back.
The book seems so very old and yet I have a sense that it didn’t exist until she offered it to me. The leather cover is cracked and worn on the edges. The pages seem older than the book itself. A strap holds the cover closed, the contents within hidden. She doesn’t press it onto me. This isn’t her decision, it’s mine. I either accept the book and what comes next or refuse it.
I hesitate and she’s very much aware I do. The book has my attention, becoming my world. Reality pulls at me to reign in my desires, my dream tells me to fall into them. The choice made, the book passes from her hands to mine.
The clouds roll over us, the world shifts, and we are back in the lecture hall once more. We’re back where we started, a place to learn and discover. She’s looking at me through her glasses; she’s expecting something from me. She doesn’t say what that is, I don’t think she needs to.
It’s not a dream; the leather bound tome remains in my hands. She’s shown me a glimpse of what could be, but she’s wrong. It’s what I know should be. It’s what I desire reality to be.
Clutching my book–it has to be mine–tightly, I turn away. I can feel her eyes as I rush towards the exit, the rest of my day seeming so much less important than it had been before. The need pulls me towards being alone to study the words I hold, to learn what she knows. To make my dream be real.
She calls out a reminder that I have a class to go to. Turning back, I exclaim that it’s not important, my need for the dream is. That smile returns along with a chiding wave. She notes in a teasing way that my dream is based in reality. I can’t ignore that for which I want most of all.
She’s right, of course. The time for dreaming seems to be past, at least for now.
I have homework.