Once upon a time I was tired and laying on my bed. I contemplated the ceiling and how it was affixed to the sky. I considered the stubble, thought of shaving the ceiling and rolling in a bed of popcorn trimmings, dusting myself white in a rain of falling plaster.
I rolled myself in blankets instead. I formed a warm cocoon and closed my eyes, conjuring memories of water, weightlessness and freedom from gravity. I pulled my head inside the soft sarcophagus and twisted it shut tight enough that I was rebreathing my own air.
My head grew light. The air grew hot. I wanted to stay forever, but pressure grew beneath my ribs.
I poked a hole for cooler air to stream through. I gulped it down, felt myself growing larger. I broke free of my wrappings, spreading my arms like wings. Above me I saw stars. I launched upward, felt my skin stretch to grab the air and elevate me upward into a yawning, speckled darkness.
It was not far to my destination. I touched down on a glassy beach, standing where lightning had struck. From there I trekked into the jungle until I found more darkness followed by light and the sounds of happiness left in the days of summers past. Old friends gathered round, and we played as we used to, caring for one another with every act of joy. Here was the lost land, and in returning it, I had returned to myself.
image via pixabay.com
