Work Text:
My eyes are closed, and a field of harmonious flowers sprawls in front of me. My eyes are open, but not like they were before, and a mismatched blanket of hasty blossoms weeps at my feet. I am floating, drifting, yearning between voids and between realities, wandering and wondering which one I can truly call home.
Sometimes I reach out with my hand into the land of flowers, and I grasp the hand of another - a real hand! - and I wait for them to pull me back, magnetically, to where they came from, for surely that is the waking world. But I fear the wait is eternal.
Other times, I reach out with my hand into the glowing blanket, and everything billows away, as if blown by the wind, before my touch. Then there is nobody and nothing, only a piercing whiteness, which also does not leave.
Is this faltering journey what death feels like? Or has my soul shattered from the core, as easily and surely as the dream, and become countless travelers on countless different roads?
Still, I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Had I known that memories more often bring joy than sadness, perhaps I would have been less afraid.