odd dreams
This morning when it was time to wake up I didn't wake up. I just laid there listlessly for hours. I dreamed briefly that I was making offerings to the Kindred, the first of which was a mirror piled with colourful sea-shells for the deities. It was an important ritual, perhaps something akin to a Dedicant rite, and people waited eagerly outside my door for the results. Mike appeared to draw me runes but the set in his hands had alien symbols.
"The Alchemist," he grinned, holding out a symbol with far too many curves to be an actual rune. "You always get this one! I somehow knew it."
In the next dream I was collecting bits of broken golden jewelry. I wanted to give them to the Ancestors but my mother knocked on my door and woke me up.
In another dream it was spring and the single bird singing in real life was singing in my dream, and I lay in cool silver filtered sunlight loosely held in a sleeping man's arms. I did not recognize his hands.
In another I was supposed to be invoking the gods, but I found my throat constricting with tears as I held up heaping handfuls of sea-shells. I was a priestess then, clad in pure white robes that stirred in the breeze, the curve of a shoulder alluringly exposed, my eyes darkly lashed and turned with feeling toward the sky. This image juxtaposed itself with me as a sleep-disheveled girl in unwanted clothing, standing in front of the tall, narrow pajama dresser in my room. I suppose this was to be my altar, but all it had was a flat mirror and an old tin bowl of water, and I had no privacy because there were people milling outside my door. "Oh gods I'm sorry," I whispered, tears finally escaping my eyes, but I dropped my shells into the well and turned and Mike was there again and said, "The Alchemist!", holding out a rune.
I want to get out of here.
"The Alchemist," he grinned, holding out a symbol with far too many curves to be an actual rune. "You always get this one! I somehow knew it."
In the next dream I was collecting bits of broken golden jewelry. I wanted to give them to the Ancestors but my mother knocked on my door and woke me up.
In another dream it was spring and the single bird singing in real life was singing in my dream, and I lay in cool silver filtered sunlight loosely held in a sleeping man's arms. I did not recognize his hands.
In another I was supposed to be invoking the gods, but I found my throat constricting with tears as I held up heaping handfuls of sea-shells. I was a priestess then, clad in pure white robes that stirred in the breeze, the curve of a shoulder alluringly exposed, my eyes darkly lashed and turned with feeling toward the sky. This image juxtaposed itself with me as a sleep-disheveled girl in unwanted clothing, standing in front of the tall, narrow pajama dresser in my room. I suppose this was to be my altar, but all it had was a flat mirror and an old tin bowl of water, and I had no privacy because there were people milling outside my door. "Oh gods I'm sorry," I whispered, tears finally escaping my eyes, but I dropped my shells into the well and turned and Mike was there again and said, "The Alchemist!", holding out a rune.
I want to get out of here.