Dreaming Of Somewhere Else

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
A dream like state where healing happens.

Submitted: July 06, 2017

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Submitted: July 06, 2017

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Emerging from my slumber I can feel the sun beating down on me, like a symbiotic alarm clock, accurate and concerning.

Peeling the moss off of my aching form, it flows to the ground crumbling into a million pieces, like that last cookie in a biscuit tin. Standing, although it doesn’t feel like it, the numbness that consumes my body makes me feel like I am floating, to the point where I may just fall.

The overwhelming urge to walk can no longer be understated, although I see nothing and head nothing. I float onwards as if sailing among the clouds. Slowly a black shape emerges, as I draw nearer, it can easily be seen as a collection of paper trees, fake looking, yet with an unusual sense of calmness, more like gliding along the soft breeze. I feel myself floating in that direction as I emerge through the trees of paper. Who would have thought that something so thin and fragile could immerse such strength? I feel very at ease and peaceful, the trees are simmering with life as if the souls of all that they are, was and ever shall be were calling out in a tangled mess of songs. So unique and beautiful, not even the finest orchestra in the world could ever compare to its concerto.

As I continue on my wistful journey I stumble across a worm stump of a tree that looked as though it had been through one to many battles. It was blackened by fire, bruised by battles and tortured by loneliness. I feel such a twinge of sympathy that I pause to gaze upon it. I can see the footprints still ground into this stumps mighty core, it can only be justified that these marks were from beatings and abuse. I feel the bubble of anger start inside me, who could hurt something so innocent, so graceful and so enchanting! So grateful for life.

The anger and sadness starts to consume me, and I feel myself lowered to the ground, the soft squidgy mud feels warm beneath my feet. I step towards it, being slow as not to scare it. The sadness that I feel, I cannot hide no more, I cannot contain it this poor creature should not suffer for something that is most likely not its fault. The sadness I feel can no longer be contained as the fast-flowing tears roll down my face and fall down to cover the stump in salty tears.

I turn away, unable to hover from sadness, the ground no longer feels warm beneath my feet, and it feels cold, cold and doomed. I turn because I do not wish this delightful creature to see any more of my sadness, I do not wish to force it to watch such unhappiness when it, itself is such a fine being.

I get no more than a few paces before I heard a huge crack, to which I swivelled round with great speed to see a new sapling growing out of the old tree. The first leaf stretched out far, as if yawning from a long, powerful and never-ending slumber. Then as if stretching for the sun it grows. The leaf grows into a stick, which grows into a branch, which grows into a fickle tree, which continues to grow into a tall tree. Standing loud and proudly with no care for what others think. Compared with the other trees this one is not paper. This one looks and feels to be real, the complexity of the bark, its rough and strong feel, the way it bends and curves into the groves and beautiful imperfections of the trees mighty trunk.

Circling the trunk, stroking it with one hand in a comforting sort of manor. It’s around 50 hand-spans around. Exceeding huggable. I realise that I am once again flying, only an inch above the ground again. I can see that the tree is still extending over and over, growing new branches and leaves by the moment. This place has no time, so a moment seems appropriate, even after all of this I am not afraid. There is nothing fearful about this place, nothing dangerous or proclaiming an undignified ending to this minuscule existence.

I look down and there is the stump I originally laid eyes upon. It was still there, hadn’t be replaced, it was there standing strong as always. Could even be considered to be glinting, shinning in the sunlight. The new glorious tree had grown from the worn, damaged and abused stump. I knew it still had life, all it needed was that little bit of encouragement, that little bit of hope that someone still believed in it. I believe in it.

Then I woke up.


© Copyright 2017 Ann Morse. All rights reserved.

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