An idea is sparked at the break of day in the heart of those awakening. Dew has settled upon the tender grasses under foot, moistening shoes as a morning stroll is taken.
“I think that’s it!” A thought, a sight seen, no meaning in particular is attached to it as shadows swim in and out, created by a rising sun. The earth smells fresh as sparkling light reflects off small droplets.
Lightning is triggered in pathways of the mind, excitement for a new beginning, fresh, clean and untouched.
Back in the moment … little gray lines with white. A pattern emerges, solidifying. Elbows rest on this platform, a chill enters the room. Light here is false. It seems to drain the body of color, sapping the force which keeps it warm.
Barely perceptible, there is movement under flesh, not unusual, only forgotten for a time. There is an invisible river flowing there, often portrayed by blood in veins. Unseen, only felt, sensed by the one who is housed here.
A little piece of wood with a hollow and a blade. It fits in the palm of my hand. Its use is yet to be determined. I put it in my pocket.
A wand, full of small flowers from a lavender bush, wrapped in ribbon, takes me back to the day it was created, in sunshine, bees buzzing … their little bits of happiness filling the air. I do not want to leave.
Grateful for memory I visit the library of my mind. Once again going to the isle where joy is kept, filed very orderly by year. Some day the halls that hold darkness will burn and make room for proliferation of sweet bliss.