The dream fractals were particularly vivid in early hours of morning–once daylight crawled up through the open blinds. A scattering of crickets and birds exercised their instruments in the backdrop of the conscious world, while she dove repeatedly, without freewill, into waves of indigo, navy, black—then back, thankfully, into aqua and tourmaline—the childhood colors from the Victorian house her dear father gutted and her sweet mother decorated. The colors in which she felt most at home and happy.

There the sun’s hands crawled through the sea with their large pattern of glitter–warming her from the indigo, navy, and black. How did those sea creatures live in those depths, she wondered, those depths inside of her all these years. The deck of cards that amassed when she wasn’t looking, much larger, and more high cards she was learning how to play, strategically, calmly.

Perhaps it was the medication to settle out her body’s soldiers–or calm her knowledge that there were factions that wanted out–wanted their freedom. No longer wanted to serve a problematic mission.

It was best most mornings to leave the kaleidoscoping dream fractals–micro scenes that did not line up with the rational mind—and read a book–enter someone else’s brain and emotions, while waiting for the coffee and her daytime world to percolate–offer catharsis up in the most infinitesimal, degenerating hands. But she had promised herself to let go and forget all that.

No, those hands were applauding her, she mused. Yes, she was reclaiming and becoming herself–this hour–and the gods somewhere from their ethereal mountain who were handing her both high and low cards–they applauded, too. She could hear them in the last crickets of night.

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