2024-06-02 - Dreaming of Being The Mother

Warm, but distant. Distant is, perhaps, not quite the right word. The thing inside this egg does not yet know words. It does not yet know that it exists. There is no conception of anything, not of time, nor the world, nor life, nor death. There is only dreaming, the hazy, indistinct dreaming of being The Mother. Gwillanth is her name, but that truth is not reflected in the dreaming, for the thing inside this egg does not yet know of names.

So. She is warm, but distant. Overarching. Arching over. But not all-consuming. Consumption is not the point here, even if the thing inside the egg does not yet understand consumption or points yet.

Will of steel. She wants to be here. She does not want to be here. Both are equally true. There is a weight, a heaviness. The thing inside the egg does not yet know of responsibility, but it feels the weight of The Mother's responsibility in this dream it dreams. That is the clearest thing, in this hazy indistinctness of dreaming. The weight anchors The Mother to here, to now. That is all there is. She wants something else.