Dream Weaver

   I find it only fitting to continue here, having copied the last written thing found by my good friend Carter shortly after his mysterious disappearance. That is save for a letter addressed to me that he was looking for the thief of my book. I had of course scanned every single page of that antique so as not to require myself or others to damage its decayed pages with use. I will not relate my own experience with that most misbegotten of rituals, labeled as forbidden even in the book its self alongside two others of equal properties and possible consequences towards humanity. No my experience of note in this case is that of an experience that I have just awoken from and wish to get in writing in these dim hours before the memory is lost in that most unusual haze of awakening, as though dying from one life to constantly reborn in another.

 

   In sleep I say I saw her, not a projected reality painted over with our own, but a reality unto herself of thought and purpose. An unearthly beauty standing on the imagined waters of the dreamscape, wrapped in a soft blue light hiding her ethnicity and her face like a mask, her voluptuous frame wrapped in a blue robe made of starlight. A loral upon her brow made of leaves or feathers. A delicate hand reached out and she spoke, not with words but with thoughts, I did not so much as hear her words as knew them. To read them would do no justice to the sensation of knowing, but I have no other means to reiterate them; “Fear Not My Mother,” the rest I do not know the proper way to say for it could be taken negative to say that her mother does not care we exist anymore than we care ants exist, or a positive perhaps that she holds no malevolence for us anymore than I might a bird passing by the window. It may be most proper to say that the truth that I knew might be more akin to looking into the woods out a window and that I and all of us are no more noticed or cared about than any individual tree unless one by whatever means (sparks) her interest.

 

   I think I may have asked why this woman would warn me. I think she laughed, or my mind made it seem as so. It was not a warning, but a statement, as it was not her who came to me, but me who went to her. When I awoke a moment later I saw I had fallen asleep at my desk, upon my monitor a scan of a page of the Victorian manuscript describing a ritual to summon the avatar of the Dream Weaver, Daughter of the Mother of Chaos; whatever that is supposed to mean, and master over all dreams both good and bad and mother of both and all iterations of the mind even those not know to man. Just past such passages was the spell, directions to simply whisper it and one would fall asleep and be granted an audience with the Dream Weaver. Had I done just that? Or had I simply dreamed that I had done what I was reading before nodding off. Should I dare to try again? What would I ask her? What could she answer? Would I believe I was told anything by anything other than my own mind? Imagined truths? For what I would want to know might only be where Carter had gone to, and the girl that took my book. I shall put this away and get proper rest, I am clearly strained from a day of police inquiries and concerned friends.