The days blur together, as if time is just a suggestion, bending and weaving with each passing thought. I can’t tell whether the dreams are spilling into the waking world or if the world is simply dreaming me. This morning, I woke with fragments of a lucid dream still clinging to my mind, as though they’d never fully left. Kate was there, and so was someone else—maybe Devon, maybe not—but it felt more like the muses had come to play again, and I was one of them. We watched ourselves, three muses in the half-light of a hotel room, playing at creation, conjuring worlds from nothing more than whispers and a flicker of desire. There was something eerie about it all, a tension I couldn’t place, like waiting for the punchline of a cosmic joke. Kate, in her pyjamas, seemed oblivious to the impending shift, but I sensed it—the arrival of something shadowed and haunting, lingering just beyond sight.

I’ve been getting lost in other people’s dreams lately. It’s as though their ideas are enchanted portals, and I can’t resist tumbling down, abandoning my own path to chase the shimmer of their magic. Each new rabbit hole feels like it holds the key to something—a piece of the puzzle I didn’t know I was trying to solve. But every time, I find myself deeper in someone else’s story, my own practice slipping like sand through my fingers. It’s curious, this pull towards other people’s dream worlds. They seem so full of wonder, as if I could inhabit them and forget my own. But I know now, it’s time to reclaim that space for myself. I need to stay grounded in my own story.

Driving up here, the road stretched before me like a ribbon unraveling toward the horizon, and I thought about NovelCrafter. It struck me—what I want isn’t just another tool. It’s a way to weave magic and reality into something whole, a speculative memoir where the boundary between fantasy and memory dissolves. I see myself writing it: part magical realism, part the absurdity of daily life. Maybe I’ll write about today, how I felt the tug of the fox’s sly gaze as I passed the edge of the woods, a reminder to stay alert and agile. Or how the Tower card fell from my deck this morning, its crumbling spire whispering of upheaval, destruction that leads to clarity.

But here’s the trick—those foxes, the Tower, they aren’t just symbols anymore. They show up, uninvited, walking through my day like they belong. The fox darting across my mind, the Tower standing tall in the back of my thoughts as I drink my coffee. It’s always there, reminding me to break free. “Don’t cling to the past,” it seems to say, “or you’ll miss the magic unfolding before you.”

I recall the dream again. Kate in her pyjamas, ready for bed. I watched, waiting for the ghost. I knew it was Halloween in the dream—it always is when these hauntings happen. But I never saw the ghost. Maybe that’s the point. Perhaps the ghost is my own, something I’m waiting for—something I’m afraid to meet but also too curious to avoid. I half expect it to show up later today, while I’m meditating or walking barefoot through the grass, grounding myself. Grounding is essential now; without it, I’d be swept up entirely by the dreams of others. It’s so easy to follow their muses, their ghosts, their towers. Yet I keep reminding myself that the real work is here, on my own path, not in chasing shadows.

Even now, I feel the muses whispering—”What if you combined all these pieces? What if you made this liminal space your own?” I could see it: the fox becomes my guide, leading me out of rabbit holes and into the deeper forest, where paths aren’t so easily marked. The muses follow, tugging at the threads of my thoughts, weaving them into stories of wonder and surrealism. There’s a beauty in this in-between, where nothing is solid, and everything shimmers with possibility.

But I can’t stay in the dream forever. I need to pull it through, integrate it, let the images live within my work without consuming me. Stay grounded, I think. The Tower might fall, the fox might run, but I’m here, feet on the earth, pen in hand, ready to craft my own narrative.

I have to remember: the world may be full of magic, but it’s my magic that matters now. Every symbol, every myth that emerges in my dreams or on my tarot deck is an invitation to explore, yes—but also to integrate, to make it mine. My life isn’t just a story waiting to be written; it’s already unfolding, here and now, with each step forward and each breath taken. I am the dreamer and the dream, the writer and the muse. And the ghost? Maybe that’s just the part of me I haven’t met yet, waiting patiently in the shadows, ready to step into the light.