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I notice it when the teacup hovers a centimeter above my aunt's saucer. I'm dreaming.
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The realization ripples through me like electricity. Suddenly, I'm hyper-aware of everything: the impossibly perfect sunlight streaming through lace curtains, the distant piano music that has no source, the way my aunt's face sometimes shifts when I'm not directly looking at her.
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"You always were a clever one, Emma," Aunt Mae says, though I hadn't spoken my realization aloud. Her smile is gentle, knowing.
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"You're not really her," I say, testing the boundaries. "You're a construct of my mind."
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"Does that make our conversation any less meaningful?" Not-Aunt-Mae asks, lifting the floating teacup. The tea inside doesn't spill, despite defying gravity.
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I consider this as I look beyond her garden. Where there should be a neighborhood stretches an impossible landscape-mountains that curl like waves, forests growing sideways along cliffs, cities built from light rather than matter.
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"I could go anywhere," I whisper, feeling the dream's fabric yield to my conscious will. "Do anything."
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"Most dreamers would fly," Not-Aunt-Mae suggests. "Or conjure fantasies."
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Instead, I close my eyes and concentrate. When I open them, the garden has transformed. The flowers now grow in perfect mathematical sequences, their petals following the golden ratio. The pathways curve in precise logarithmic spirals. A reflecting pool mirrors not the sky above but a different dimension altogether.
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Not-Aunt-Mae laughs delightedly. "You're not escaping reality-you're redesigning it."
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"I'm an architect even in my dreams," I admit, watching as impossible structures begin to rise around us, buildings that could never stand in the waking world yet here express perfect structural harmony.
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I extend my hand, and a glowing blueprint materializes. "I've been stuck on this project for weeks."
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"Because you've been working within unnecessary constraints."
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As we walk through my evolving dreamscape, each step bringing new inspirations into existence, I understand why lucidity matters. It's not about control-it's about recognition. Recognizing that even in unconsciousness, I remain myself.
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When I feel the familiar tug of waking, Not-Aunt-Mae takes my hand. "Remember this feeling."
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I wake with tears in my eyes, reach immediately for my sketchbook, and begin to draw what I've learned: that limitations exist primarily in our perception, not in reality itself.
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The solution had been waiting for me all along, in the architecture of my dreams.
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THE END
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Credit from the Writer/Author: Mafalda https://www.penana.com/user/251258
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💭(BEARly's Lucid Dreamscapes Contest: 3rd PLACE. Themed: Adventure)💭
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