I am staring into a blank canvas. It opens from the center and swallows me whole.
I tumble wildly through forests of pastel willows and oil based oleanders. They drip poison onto my tongue and I shut my eyes and become the wind through the branches of a tree which is hugged by pink hues, light and dark. I am lifted up over lemonade grass and tunneled through caliginous valleys. I think it speaks of irony. The ephemeral insects take flight and the sounds of soft wings beating the air liquefies and like a river, flows into my ears. I inhale the smells of Summer. It's a taste that seems almost pelagic. A fragile yet salty tang grasps the tip of my tongue. Ripples form in a never ending river that flows between my fingertips most surreptitiously. The porcelain clouds frame the sky and it seems as if they are having a difficult time keeping it all in. The sky suddenly bursts out of the frame and the mountains begin swaying behind their nebulous cover. The smell is now the Earth after a light rain. The ground is spongy and my feet sink into it with each step. I hear the laughter of the many day creatures who reside within this place I've created. I bask in the efflorescent paradise that resides in the palm of my hand. This place is only befitting of angels and I do not deserve to bear witness to it's vast territory and sunsets set ablaze by the water it is reflected by. This place, where I am who I say I am. There are no questions, no lies, no regrets. Love is not evanescent. It lasts as long as we say it lasts. And it can be forever. I'm running through the trees because there is a better life in the clearing. I see the light, I sprint toward it, giving the ground steady steps like a hummingbird's heartbeat. I close my eyes and wait for the light to capture me. I reach in and pull myself through with a graceful ease. I am on the other side.
My face is smudged with a plethora of paint a charcoal and oil pastels from other days and other works. Pieces of my hair are messily tucked behind my ears.
There are no sounds or words or tastes or scents or things for my eyes to feast on except this blank canvas, which, in it's entirety, is really all I that I'll ever need.
