Chapter Seven

So there's a field of flowers of every possible color that flowers come in that is beautiful. It looks like that Seurat enveloping your bare feet. It kind of tickles. Yes, it’s just like that Seurat. Except there is no picture when you step back or as you fly over in one of those old 1-seat model red planes. But if you were in one of those, whether it was covered in dust or whether someone was caring and wiped it down, the air would be cool as it rushed against your cheek, hitting a perfect balance with a warm but not humid southern-winter day. You would notice that the grass grows sparsely back on the ground. You could find a piece to whistle through – that way you do when you put it between your thumbs-if you looked hard, but this is a sea of flowers. Grass has no place, no claim /here/. It's too boring for this field.

The horizon in front of you is a cool and royal blue. Or maybe a purple. It’s hard to tell, but you don't really feel like thinking about it. It looks just nice and relaxing the way it is. You could almost breathe it in like you would a steaming cup of tea, you’re your hands cupped tightly around it on a rainy, foggy afternoon. The moon floats lazily in the skeleton of some tree, casting its eerie and familiar yellow whisper into the chirping air. Chirping? You look around and listen. The field is full of crickets, somewhere, invisible until you close your eyes and see them, a dissolved hum of the air. You open your eyes slowly. You can still hear the crickets, while swarms of fireflies rise like the dead from a slumber. It’s like nothing you've ever seen. Each pin point of green lantern light blends with each trill echoing in your head. They become one; one thing more basic than either sight or sound alone. One mystical thing. A faint light and a faint sound together here are louder then even silence. And you aren't the only one enjoying the calm and majestic backdrop.

A few meters away a pair of suits waltzes in the moonbeam. Or is it the firefly light? The coats are tailored in that very 18th century noble and modern pianist drag cut, with the long narrow coat tails and the black silk and the white velvet trim and the pearl buttons and the ivory cuff links and the whatnot. And two black silk top hats spun with the coats above and two pairs of black silk trousers and white velvet shoes spun below. They were very pretty to watch in their waltz, you almost wanted to join them, to ask to cut in. But those two suits must have been cut together and from the same and you'd hate to interrupt them when they look to be having so much fun. Instead you just listen to the wind whistle through the empty hollows of the beautiful suits that no bodies will ever wear and waltz half as well.

Beyond them is a crumbling stone archway and a large imposing and commanding door. It looks rather silly, all by itself in this field, but not completely out of place. It felt somehow like it belonged here. It’s done in a soft pink paint that makes you think of the first moments of your first love. And it actually makes you feel warm and cozy. Almost like you've been wrapped in baby's wool - soft and soothing. The way wool would always feel if it wasn’t itchy, or if you couldn’t sense itchy. Stop that. The word itchy is ruining the cozy feeling. You need something else to do with your mind. You suddenly need to see what’s through that door. Now, you already know what’s through the door, you can see it on the other side. There’s no building or room. It’s just a door frame in the middle of a field. But you have to open it anyway. You have to look through. It’s some kind of instinct, it draws you in. You don’t even try to fight it. You walk over towards the door. As you walk, you feel each fiber of your muscles bending, extending, pushing, pulling. It’s fascinating. It’s the kind of sensation you only have once every thirty years and only by sheer accident! You revel in the feeling. It’s alien, but you want to remember it because you know it will never happen again. You look up. You’ve gone full past the door. How did that happen? You’re the same distance away as you started, but on the other side. Smooth. And the feeling’s gone. So you hasten back to the door.

The knob for the lovely door done in pink is golden and tear shaped. Your hand wraps perfectly and smoothly around it, pressing into the chilled soft gold. And what soft gold it is! It feels frozen and molten at the same time. It's got the feel of touching ice - the sudden burst of cold, and then the relaxation as it melts in your hand on a hot summer day. But also the flow of molten gold. It forms to you hand and jumps through your fingers like Play Doh. You open it sensationally, and you see exactly the other side of the field. It's not another world or some magick door. It's completely normal. Nothing special, nothing to get worked up about. It's exactly what you expected; it seems calm and peaceful. There are no tricks. Everything is... Everything is fine and beautiful just the way it is.

It's a wonderful sentiment to hold onto as you yawn, stretch, and start your day.