I find myself in this place often; a field of bluegrass that sings in the suns’ tendrils of light, boxed in by a vast lake which has no visible end and is crystallized by the sunshine, it encircles the island I end up on every night. It’s hard to walk through, this uncut bluegrass, my legs feel like lead, but I know I need to get somewhere. There’s a destination somewhere here, a clearing in the centre of the woodland in front of me, I just need to reach it and my body tingles as it pulls and leads me towards my finishing line. I’ve seen the clearing before, on my visits here. I get to the point before I lift my foot, heavy under the weight of extra gravity, and push it triumphantly from the shadow of the trees that form a roof above me into the blinding light that fills the place where these great oaks, redwoods and pines have failed to grow. It hurts my eyes to see it, after such darkness as I’ve known from walking under the bitter canopy of the woods, but I know through the haziness that it’s beautiful. I can smell, almost taste, the sweet nectar of my daisies which shine red, yellow and white, their faces pointing towards the strong midday sun. Yes, I’ve found myself here often but never have I reached my destination. Never have I achieved what I know I should achieve. I’m rejected at the last minute, every time my foot lifts forward hope rises within me, only to be suddenly torn from this beautiful world into my own. I’m always thrown back into the tidal wave of reality where I drown under the pressure of the real world. Maybe this world I dream of is my world of Forms: my unchanging and perfect oasis. The paradise I’ve been searching for my whole life. Or maybe it’s just the dream of a young, inexperienced and underachieving yet over hopeful girl. But I can’t forget, I won’t forget, the taste of the musty woods which lingers in my lungs, even whilst awake, and the feel of rough bark which I so often caress with my hand. I could never forget, even in my waking state, the shades of orange, red and brown which cover and dance across the littered woodland floor, reflected from the dead yet alive leaves above me. I feel like I belong here, like I belong where angel rays find holes in the armour of branches above my dream self to form patterns of light on the bare skin of my arms and face; a place in which I walk a path flattened by my own laboured footsteps, and only mine. It leads me from the field where the grass is blown from side to side by an unfelt wind, to the edge of the forest wall where trees whine under their own seedlings and leaves. The path that I tread is soft underfoot, it is untouched by rain yet the mud which dwells below the overgrown bluegrass is damp and spongy. The journey within the woods feels like forever on my lonely island, feels like days within minutes and hours within seconds. Even though I’ve seen it all a hundred times, even though I’ve been here so often, I still manage to fall in love again and again with my trees that surround the dream version of me. The version whose eyes light up like I wish they would, whose cheeks glow pink without any help. The me whose copper hair flies in a halo around my head and shoulders, in an almost boudiccan style. A version of myself whose smile is never unfaltering because they are never in a place they do not belong, they never have to inhabit the real world. My eyes trace the words impressed softly into the façade of the trees who whisper their ancient secrets to me. It’s autumn and summer here, there’s never a winter or spring. The trees are always alive, even the oak which of course is not coniferous. The only sad touch of change here is the change in the colour of the leaves above, the process of death which has been stopped in the static world around me. And although I follow the path, every time, although I listen to my body which leads me through, I never reach that special place. I never reach my haven. But I know that I’d rather be here than walking the streets along which I am forced to walk in the real world, because although my reverie is a bitter one, full of heart stopping discontent, I know that I’d rather dream.
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