For two nights in a row, I have wrestled with an angel. Shuddering in that classic pose of interlocked hands pushing against each other as the ground is tilled with our feet. I have woken up with strained shoulders and spasming muscles that make me wonder if I have been fitting in my sleep again.
Who the angel is, I don’t know. All the questions of circumstances elude me. Each dream starts off with the awareness that I must not yield, no matter who I am struggling against. Each dream ends the moment I become lucid. As if the bringing of all my thoughts to one singular focus would be enough to unbalance the combined forces.
This morning, though, another dream started shortly after I went back to sleep. I am standing on the field of battle, a little distance away from the location of the struggle. The ground is still tilled and the sun has sent its heralds to brighten in the east.
I am, as I always have been, with a long black coat and a wide brim black hat. Weaver Traveling observes, then adjusts her hat. I look at my hands after the motion, as something unusual has caught my eye.
My nails are long black talons, and I realize where I have seen them before.
As I turn and leave the dream, I wonder, if this will be OG’s “devil mark” upon me, or am I just revealing what I have always been.