Turned off the alarm at 0200 and lay down again, with the Dream upon me. The Earth turns, and circles the Sun, and once again it's the Time. The Bride must meet her Groom. I am Woman, and I arise out of the Earth, and ascend into the sky.
What time is it? I think, as I lie in my dark bedroom. A Time of great knowledge, the Dream answers, but very little Wisdom. Fools everywhere deny everything but their infantile egos, and threaten everything that lives. Unchecked greed and the lust for power bid fair (bid foul?) to end all Life.
My awareness expands a bit more, and now I am the older woman, the older man, escorting the Bride to the Groom, not the Bride herself. I am Merlin, I am Blaise, I am Gwydion; and who is the Bride, this time? All brides are the same Bride, as all times are the same Time; but whose Wedding is it this time, and who the Bride who ascends beside me? Whose story shall I write? Guinevere's? Eilonwy's? Morganna's? Titania's? Lavinia's? Califia's?
I open the Book in my hand, or I pluck it from some shelf, and it is the Arwenarwe. Yes, Arwen is a favorite, let it be her this time. I reach out, and take her hand.
One moment I am so high that the blue sky is almost black, and the round Earth curves beneath me; the next, I am Êstâz, and it's a round table before me, at a wedding feast, waiting for Morghai. But I never wed Morghai. She was a foreign Queen, who had her own people to lead; and my people needed me, to lead them against the plots and threats of the Old Ones. Whose wedding feast is this, then?
All weddings are the same Wedding, the Muse whispers, and all feasts are the same Feast. I awake, slightly cold, slightly hungry. How long have I lain here, since the alarm went off, with the Dream repeating and repeating, and my identity flowing like water?
I get up. Leaving my bedroom, I turn on the living room light, and the light in my computer room. The computer is off, I see, so we had a power glitch sometime between 2300 last night, when I went to bed, and whatever time it is now. I turn the computer on, and make a quick trip to the bathroom, careful not to trip over any of the dream figments mewling around my feet.
I return, and log in. It's 0600, I see. I open my journal. All stories are the same Story? Perhaps, perhaps not. But I have a lot to write, this day, and every day.
It may be that some day the Dream will refuse to give me up. If that should happen, then I will write no more. Here and now, in this exalted state, I neither dread it nor look forward to it. I prize my stories, or I wouldn't write them; but the Dreaming is endless, and there will always be stories.
Meanwhile, the Dream sings in me, Calliope's blood flows through my veins, and the Dragon's fire sizzles along my nerves. I type: