I dream I’m standing in a field of flowers, smoky blue petals filling the ground for as far as my eye can see.  They are like the ones that grew in my window box when I was a child, the ones I imagined to be filled with magic.  I used to feed them with wishes and convince myself that they became a deeper shade of blue because of them.

There’s a golden steam trickling through the field, passing just in front of my toes.  The sounds it makes is the kind of music I imagined fairy music would sound like.  Soft and crisp and impossible.  The sun is getting close to the horizon, warm and rich and deep, deep, yellow.

A gentle wind picks up and millions of petals fly into the air, up and up until they are little blue sails lost in the sky.  I wonder if each of them are a wish I once had.

I hold out my hands and feel the kiss of fading sun and summer breeze.  It is here that I decide to pretend it isn’t a dream, because if it isn’t, I can stay here forever.  But dreams have a way of being dreams, which is to say, fickle and changing.

The wind stops and petals are falling, drifting down like soft snowflakes, landing in my hair and in my hands and into the golden water at my feet.  There is a wonderful smell in the air, like roses and lilacs and strawberries.  I close my eyes for a moment to smell it.

When I open them things have changed again.

There are thin tendrils of smoke rising into the air, coming from every petal in the stream. They are smoldering. They are hissing.

They are bursting into blue flame.

Every flower is catching, threads of smoke unfurling into the air.  I’m in a field of blue fire on green stems.  I’m watching them burn without being consumed.

Something cold touches my feet, and when I look down I see golden water has flooded the field.  It is rising, swallowing up the stems and leaves, reaching for the flowers, but stopping before it reaches their flames.

And I am standing in ankle deep water, overwhelmed with the sight before me.  Blue flames spotted amongst a still sea of gold, as far as my eye can see, wild and peaceful and brilliant.  The edges are blurring and I know that I’m waking up, so I stare at a flower in front of me, framed in gold, and try to commit the details to memory.

I’m rising from the field, nearing a morning that is worlds away, but doing so gently with a smile on my lips.

Waking is merely another change.

It could be the best one yet.


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