I remember writing this, now, when Iím writing it againÖ
   My hand is writing it, now, writing what was written by my dreams so long ago.
   Everything is silent around me. All the sounds of the night and the day are quiet, speaking only in my mind.
   Clarity is surging through me again. Itís amazing how everythingÖ fits.
   A leaf falls to the ground somewhere. I see it. I see thousands of leaves rise from the ground, before they ever fell from the branches. Fate is pre-determinedÖ right, different from destiny that is desire, direction, belief? The Book of Fate, the book right in front of me, right now, turning its pages in my presence speaks in brief about giants walking the Universe, about dragons spitting their more than intense fire on all the upturned stones there are, burning what was hidden, was Shadow, revealing it for all to see and experience.
   Sorcerers, seekers in Shadow write their books, their notes of the Other World, of whatís Hidden. They touch the infinite and eternal and bring pale darkness to illuminate everybody, also those who donít want to open their eyes to the world.
   I know what the sun and the moon looks like and feels like. Iíve stared it in the eyes, faced it close enough to burn. I remember that feeling well, how small I felt, reminding me how big I feel now, when I look at my face from the other end.
   The Book of Fate is no mere Book of Shadows, written by a mere seeker of the unknown. Itís writing itself, or at least it seems to be. When you enter the room that isnít a room nothing visible or tangible is turning its pages or holding the pen levitating above what looks like old, decrepit paper. The penís point touches only air, but words still appear below, not on one page but billions times billions simultaneously. The book isnít in only one place, but all places, all times. Iíve read it for some time, but understanding kept eluding me.
   Then, suddenly I knew, knew what I hadnít been able to grasp:

   Thereís one entity, one dragon that isnít just mentioned in passing, one human being that isnít just mentioned on a few more pages here and thereÖ but on all of them, every single sheet of paper and mist that ever is. Stunned for a few seconds I realize the undeniable truth, what virtually everybody denies to themselves:

   I know who I am.

  

  

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