Everything fades into the farthest reaches, there is only my eyes and what they’ve focused upon. The horizon expands, I am a witness to the birth of a mountain. It rises before my eyes, as if it were made for me.
The rigid edge clashes against the smooth morning blues and the approaching sun retaliates, springing forth splashes of pink and orange like sweet candy flames. The newborn mountain pays no mind to the empty attempts of the apathetic dawn. It seems to call to me, to tell me that it is our turn now, finally.
I’m more aligned with the dawn–things rarely feel final.
The rigid way of the mountain creases itself and completes the peak, as if it’s following my lead. The other side falls, quickly, creating a smoother slope. Perhaps the mountain knows the return trip always seems to pass quicker. The difference between chopping wood and buttering toast.
I feel a change… or is it fear?
The rigid is assaulted, becoming more so and then–light. The mountain explodes from the center, out. It’s an enormous flash that erases everything into orange then fading into pale yellow, until the white takes over. I’m blind. Or is the dream simply over?
Rising out of the depths of me, as if the blindness is the human equivalent of a shuffle button, I feel something. It’s smooth and round, my hand grips it with my fingers wrapping around. My wrist turns and I understand what it is. I open the door…