What Dreams are Made Of_Part 0ne: The Moon

The gravel pushed rudely beneath his heels as he climbed the last few steps toward the peak of the old hill. He could see for miles. Silhouettes of trees and the forests that embraced them swayed gently near the horizon. He was tired but not spent; energy bristled through his limbs like water through a bed of stones. It was just an illusion, of course. Time could halt without warning. It was often hard to tell if the journey was a gain or loss. It felt like both.

The air was warm. Dry leaves scattered in the exhale of the Moon. He looked down deeply into the valley of his discontent. Shadows hid most of his secret regrets, except for the few that were edged in pallid light; they still pulled at his heart. A flock of blackbirds danced above. The long grass whispered to the wind. With eyes closed, chin to chest; breath held in defiantly, a heavy emptiness slowly overwhelmed his senses.

The Moon: how he longed to be there. It was waiting like a promise in the sky; too far away to touch yet close enough to let you feel its disappointment. It hung on silver threaded beams, like a perfect pearl among the diamonds, beckoning.

It was then in a lingering moment of self-pity and despair that a plan began to form. He felt it pour into his mind. It was like liquid light. His arms stretched involuntarily skyward. The answer was delivered in music; it was painted in oils; it was the sliver of an idea wrapped in words. So simple, no wonder it had never occurred to him before. Brushing aside conventional questions, he started back down the old hill. He could hardly wait to set himself to the task.

 To be continued.