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The dream

The dream

He had a dream. In vivid colour. The sky a sparkling blue. The air so crisp and clear the horizon seemed an eternity away. The trees were green, branches hanging low under the weight of perfect fruit. He took a breath so deep he thought his lungs would surely burst. The air so clean and fresh. The sun’s rays warmed his skin, and the mists churned up by the bubbling stream cooled him. At first he thought it was deathly quiet but as his distractions bled from his frantic mind he could hear the natural chaos; from the wind rustling in the trees and to the birds chatting in subtle contentment. He could hear waves crashing on a not too distant shore and smell the fresh saltiness of the sea. He saw a little house with a little perfect garden, white picket fence and all.  He could hear the distant laughter of children and the playful bark of an excited dog. For reasons he did not understand his chest swelled and a smile crept up to his dry lips. His heart felt lighter than air. Like someone had put a helium filled balloon in his chest. His mind felt free. He could not remember his worries or his fears. His essence swirled and danced around him simply buzzing with bliss. His very soul tingled in satisfaction.

As the sound of distant thunder rolled across a menacing sky in the murky hues of dawn he tried, in vain, to hold on, as his subconscious creations slipped from his grasp, like water from cupped hands. His back twinged from the awkward angle he had slept. He gently rubbed his eyes and rolled onto his back and stared at the sealing as the familiar fears and worries returned, settling into their familiar places. fitting snuggle into moulds worn over time and etched into his very existence. As reality settled in, he rose and drew the curtains. The sky was dark and menacing. The city air was acrid and familiar.  A nearby siren denied serenity as Monday morning dawned. His mind had already started prioritising the work that needed to be done. Bills had to be paid. Neuroses had to be fed and hearts had to be healed and broken again. Life had to be lived.

This was no perfect dream This was no prefect fantasy.

He felt alive.

He was happy here.


About Michael Kuczmierczyk

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