By Sharon Ophelia
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February 17, 2025
Every now and then I get into this fantasy phase where my imagination floods and overwhelms. I'm swollen in mystery as I meander through the forest, the sun glimmering beyond the trunks of the beech trees and onto my freckled face. It's always the same dream. I wander and wander, a soft melody of the rush of winds and crackles of twigs beneath my feet, coax me to continue further. What lies beyond, I need to know. I walk a while; twists and turns lead me onward. My pace grows faster as my desire to reach the end becomes stronger. Shapes of animals race me to the finish line. Blurs of brown speed past me, as I cobble along the creek bank, my foothold on each stone a pure step of faith. I have little knowledge about the path I tread, but I know I must keep going. And it is all but in an instant, when all becomes white. The light beyond becomes the light before me and in such a wonderful display, I startle and fall back into the cool of the leaves resting on the forest floor. Moments that span beyond my recollection pass, as I awaken. The towering trees stand before me, reaching high into the sky. I can feel their energies from way down here. They dance a little. I breathe in their strong scent. Spring is in bloom. I sit up slowly. My head aches a little and my back twinges. I must have fallen hard. But to what I owe the pleasure, I don't quite realize, yet all at once I am surrounded by curiosity. Their little faces scrunched up, elder in appearance, yet incredibly tiny in stature. They peer behind rocks and trees, shrubs and leaves. They are everywhere. Too shy to come forward, yet bold enough to stay. Suddenly, none of which I see, I realize is familiar. The sky is glistening in diamonds while the ground around me-- once a cool layer of leaves atop a muddy bed, now provides a blanket of mossy green. I am overwhelmed by this serenity. Such marvels are too great to behold. Yet here I am in the middle of it. And I awake once more. Never to reach the next chapter. Is there more written? I plead with the Master of my dreams to continue his story that I might behold it in his finished, glorious form. What a gift it would be to stand in that enchanting forest, greatly attempting to persuade the little creatures to come out of hiding and sit a spell for a chat. I'd hope they'd take me back to their village or hut where they live together and be invited in for tea and biscuits with honey and jam. Or maybe, they'd introduce me to their friends of various kinds all across the woodland. That deep down, they would know I was not a threat and there I would reside with them. Day after day I would learn the ways of the Mystique and night after night, I would sleep beneath the stars that set forth their pride in the sky that weaved between deep blues and purples. The constellations I'd study and the tides, though hard to recognize, I'd come to know in time. In moments of rest, I'd connect to the earth in the mossy green and let it worm its energies through my spirit; establishing an everlasting connection with this state of pure contentment. But alas, I awake, more aware than ever. I slither back down into the blankets to catch another scene of the best of my dreams, but to no avail does anything ever come from it. So I muddle through my day in search of anything so enchanting. Even fruit flies seem to take on a new persona. Dainty fairies in their infant form, clumsy little flyers aching for approval, they float to and fro across my line of vision, I try my best not to swat at them-- though I do believe they wholeheartedly deserve it for such an interruption. I cling to my library in times like these, books of enchantment that seem to hold me together. I'd just about shatter to pieces and die in sorrow if not for these written reminders of imagination, speculation, observation with all a twist of magic sputtered in. I go to these when I become lonely, saddened by the heavy world around me. There is so much to hide from in the weather of this world, but so much to cling to when essential. And it is from these works that my imagination is renewed and I drift back to sleep in the great slumber of the Mystique.