It taste of pink. A cold pink, not exactly flavorless, but without a direct contributing element to be anything more than pink. If I think of grapefruit, it stings of grapefruit. If I imagine cotton candy it sweetens my mouth with a sugary glaze. I take a liking to the staleness of pink, mysteriously everything and nothing all at once, and set my sights out beyond the otter pop numbing my fingertips.
There is a breeze here. It flew in over night, swirling around the house and bringing the trees into great discussion. Gliding in on the tips of each breeze, dragonflies, dance about in flocks busily. I’ve noticed them recently and even though it’s quite routine for this time of year, I can’t help but feel a tiny bit of mystic magic upon their appearance. Watching them, I remember my dream from the night before. I was running.
Running full speed, but not at exertion. Running, but not from anyone or anything. Running towards no one, but into the arms of something. Something beyond you or me, that cannot be contained, that quite honestly refuses to be. I remember that in my dream I could feel it, without the ability or need to see, I knew it was there. I was close. I felt it; freedom. But, then I woke up.
A tractor full of commotion went by the front of the house, breaking thought. The ruckus of it all brought the birds into an uprising of chatter, ceremoniously blending in with the symphony of the trees. Watching the shadows of the world dance in motion, I tasted pink once again, choosing to not limit myself to one flavor.