Thanks to John42n8 for the photograph.
I saw before me a field spread wide. Winds pushing gently through the grains, moving them suddenly from stillness. Each day I wandered the land, exploring every slope and hill. Finding every crevice. Each evening I would return to the highest peak and look upon the paths made by my wandering. Each path; I dreamed, led to a different life with different tales told. And through those dreams I felt alive, no longer trapped within this paltry field of never changing grains and sky.
One night as images danced across the skies of clearest stars, I told the heavens my silent stories. Those stories I like to believe were told and retold across the stars themselves. Behind my eyes though, looming clouds of black hail rolled in. My paths, beautiful and innocent were battered and beaten. Pummeled into a listless submission. When the storm had cleared I stepped into my once grand dreamworld.
Where once my childhood lay only a dense fog remained. All the trails I’d grown to love had gone. As I stood in my ashen state among the quickly decaying possibilities my only thought was the paths. Not where the paths led me but the feel of the lush grasses and the soft touch of the grains as my hands passed over. Each path a new path of chance. Of choice. I grasped in my small hands the sharded fields, trying to put the pieces together. I look out only to see the storm rolling into the distance towards anothers field. I pity the soul for their dreams are soon to end.
If sunshine could grant wishes and breezes bring rains. Both would I need to be whole again.