Through my eyelids I see the riot of gold that warms my face, my outstretched arms, the palms of my hands as they break the crisp March air. Not quite warm enough to be called Spring, but I’m sleeveless nonetheless.
two, three, four
I feel it, then, the wave that says it’s time to stop twirling, spinning, abandoning gravity for as long as I can. Finally crumpling, letting go of my reverie, landing softly in the tall grass, waiting for the world to stop, too.
This is the madness of creativity.