There is a field somewhere, softly sloping and covered with grass. Not the kind of grass one finds in front of perfectly manicured mansions; this grass is healthy, real grass, neat and messy in perfect disorder. It is neither sunny nor overcast – slightly cloudy, so that the world is softly glowing even when my eyes are closed – that is the most illuminating light. A slight breeze steps by, with just enough motion to make its presence known, just enough so that I know that it is there, yet not quite enough for me to feel it. I do not disturb, and am not disturbed.
There is, in a slight rise, a tree; it is wholly unremarkable, but smooth and comfortable – I can lean at its base, I can perch on a trunk, I can swing on the branches. Its shadow is cool, the bark having a firmly yielding surface. Sometimes the hardest pillows feel the softest; perhaps it is a birch.
There is water somewhere nearby, and with the wind, refuses to let the air remain stagnant. They ask my mind to wander, while keeping me lightly anchored to the field. The birds beat out a light snare with their wings, the crickets fiddle away, and the tree shapes a harmony to match. I hear it all and hear nothing - it is the final resolution of the scattered vectors of my thought.
There is such a field somewhere...but I have yet to find it.
(side note: sketched that at least four years ago...written a different version of this 'there is a field somewhere' at least three or four times too, but the idea has been the same. funny how some things never change, hm?)
