I am running across the field, my feet light as air, particles gathering in a circle. They twirl, following the sway of my body as the rhythm casts them alive. I swarm, lured by the scent, the days of sunshine cast sideways in the dust-filled moth beds of the attic and the stairs that creak ever so slightly. It pushes me forward, encircling around the valley of lush hills, of the light that casts in a dim noon glow which doesn’t blind, doesn’t hurt, but comforts, leaving a warmth kindling in my stomach. It tans my arms, soothes them with a layer of protection, bestows them with a coat of freedom. It is intimate; it is yielding.
The wind comes close to my face, lifting up the light muslin of my dress, the purity blending with it all, coming together ever so perfectly with the backdrop of the rolling green. The little dots of purple and pink, blue and yellow – daisies and marigolds set against the soft scene. They invigorate me, cause me to gasp in silent pain, so I know that I am alive. Breathe. I am free, and this is the heaven to die in.
But reader, I’m afraid that these are only dreams. These only happen in the made-up memories of my mind, in those images lost and recollected in the black hole, swirling into a collage of mismatched pictures, videos and scents that fall together perfectly in all the wrong ways. They are too beautiful to be true, perhaps.
Because when I wake up, the world isn’t as flawless as I dreamed. It emerges stark and gray before my eyes, and before I know it the sun is setting and the night has settled in again. It is cold; it is unyielding.