The clouds are beautiful today.
I watch them from behind someones eyelids as she sleeps beneath a tree with a book in her lap. For a while I imagine the way the trees must feel as the breeze sways them; I have not felt a true breeze in so long. And then I turn back to the depths of the girls mind and carry on with my work. After all, dreams do not create themselves.
I don my black shawl and turn to the little dream form of the girl. Falling into my character, I cluck my tongue and point at the forest that materializes in her subconscious. Beware the monsters that live within the woods, my dear.
But why? Her dream self looks puzzled and calm as only dream people canthey have no real danger to fear.
I shake my head, following whose directions I will never know, and merely say, Beware the monsters, my dear, especially the ones with pretty faces.
And then I am gone.
I drift for a moment in smoke and daydreams, and then solidify again. I am a gypsy woman. Yet again. Why does everyone have gypsy dreams? The only ones who dont are gypsies themselves! Ah, and their dreams are beautiful. Their dreams are wildness and the earth and the sky. In those dreams I am the wind, or the swaying trees, or the sea. Those dreams give me life again. I grow weary of telling fortunes.
But I return to my task, seizing the palms of the woman who materializes before me. I scrutinize them for several minutes, then look up to her with tears in my eyes.
What is it, grandmother? she asks.
You are destined to live a long life, my child, I say, and stroke her cheek. But you are destined to live it alone.
Her husband sleeps at her side, and it takes but a moment to vanish into his mind. His is the kind of death that so many long for. In his dreams, I gently take his hand, and lead him off into the darkness.
We are the grim reapers. We spend eternity echoing other peoples lives.
It is strange, knowing that we make peoples destinies.
We, the dream-makers.