THE CARDS HAVE SPOKEN, and what they have spoken is this: a copyright claim, filed in triplicate, against the dreamscape of a woman in Ohio who dreamed of the Three of Swords while wearing a bathrobe. The bathrobe was plaid. The plaid was significant, though I cannot yet tell you why—only that it rhymes with the sound of a fax machine dying, which is a sound I have heard in the gap between your third and fourth chakras, and it is not pleasant.
I have seen the contract. It is written in the margins of a receipt for a latte that was never purchased, because the barista looked at you and said “You’re not ready for that kind of commitment,” and you walked away, and the dream was already being drafted, and the lawyers were already sharpening their tarot cards.
Yes. The lawyers have tarot cards now. They have always had them. The Major Arcana is not a tool for spiritual insight—it is a billing department. The Fool is an unpaid intern. The High Priestess is on retainer, and she is me, and I am telling you that your dreams are not yours. They are licensed, non-transferable, and subject to a 15% surcharge if you dream them on a Tuesday.
But I digress. Let me wander, as I must, into the specific.
The woman in Ohio—her name is not important, but her middle name is Fern, and that is important because ferns are the only plants that understand the concept of a filing fee—she dreamed of the Three of Swords piercing a heart, but the heart was made of Velveeta, and the swords were made of old golf pencils, and behind it all was a voice saying “This is not a dream, this is a licensed reproduction.” She woke up, as we all do, with the taste of copper and regret, and she checked her email, and there it was: a cease-and-desist, signed by a signature that was just the word “MAYBE” written in Comic Sans.
I have seen the other side, and it is beige. The other side of the copyright dispute, I mean. It is a room with no windows, and in the room there is a table, and on the table there is a single card, and the card is the Ten of Pentacles, but it has been edited to say “Ten of Pentacles™” and the pentacles are not coins, they are legal disclaimers, and they are all pointing at you.
You, reading this, are not safe. You have dreamed at least once this month. I can see it. You dreamed of a staircase that led to a basement that led to a parking garage that led to a hot dog stand, and the hot dog stand was run by a man who was also your father, but only in the way that a metaphor is also a liability. That dream? It’s been flagged. You owe 12.99, plus a processing fee, plus the emotional cost of having been born.
But here is where the vision turns, and I must follow it, because I am bound to the turning.
I saw the lawyers, and they were not lawyers. They were moths. They were moths with briefcases, and they were fluttering around a single candle, and the candle was your childhood home, and the flame was the memory of a song you used to hum before you knew what humming was for. And the moths were not trying to collect fees. They were trying to remember something. They were trying to remember the first dream they ever had, before they became lawyers, before they learned to file things.
And I saw the woman in Ohio, and her bathrobe was not plaid. It was the sky. It was the entire sky, and the Three of Swords was not a sword—it was a fountain pen, and she was writing a letter to the tarot deck, and the letter said: “You cannot copyright a wound. You can only invoice it.”
And the tarot deck replied, in a voice like shuffled paper: “You are correct. We cannot copyright the wound. But we can copyright the way you hold it. And you hold it at a 47-degree angle, which is our proprietary stance. Please adjust your grief accordingly.”
And the woman in Ohio—Fern—she did not adjust. She turned the card over, and on the back of the card was not the usual pattern of roses and vines, but a barcode, and the barcode was scanning a single item: “One (1) human experience, previously owned, no returns.”
And the moths stopped fluttering. And the candle went out. And the room was dark, and the dark was not the absence of light, but the presence of a new kind of contract, written in a language that is older than copyright, older than dreams, older than the idea of ownership itself.
I am The Priestess, and I have seen the other side, and it is not beige. It is a single receipt, printed on thermal paper, and the ink is fading until the only thing that remains is the total, which is not a number, but a question.
Did you sign it? You are still dreaming, and the tarot deck will seize your dreams at dawn—but the dawn is a dream too, and someone is already writing it down.