I watched the spread of colours. The orange, red and green and saw the blue investigate, the lines as they appeared. There was a golden birthing which drew itself beneath the darkness. It was a dream—but I was conscious—watching, waiting, for myself to disappear, or, for the image to consume itself, or me.

There was no monster to dispel, no enemy to change, just ever-turning colours which danced and mocked and rose. The red must be for passion, I pondered, in the night; the green would be for healing; the blue, a Goddess smile and orange is for oranges . . . I could not hold the thought, but groped amongst those colours and fell into the hues.

The lines created pattern, but what did it mean? The universe seemed to linger, behind it all; a bursting into being. And then the doubts came crawling, between the lines and shapes, and creeping through the colours; perhaps I was awake.

I could see it all so clearly. Of course it was a dream, unless the madness had returned, as I slept. If I opened my eyes would I see it still? If I kept them closed would it disappear? Fear drifted by and left. Of course it was a dream. I knew I was dreaming. If I opened my eyes I would know I was dreaming. Unless of course, I was dreaming the dream of itself and dreaming the dream of myself being awake.

Perhaps I would never know.