After so long, story has returned to me. I could escape if I wished, but I don't wish. Vines of romance race upwards around me, and bars of emotion contain them. Yet the sunshine of hope shines through leaves of sacrifice. The art of story, that passionate painting of love, captures my focus.
I feel every heartbeat that pumps blood through me. It's like seeing a sunset with Caribbean blues and metallic oranges. It's that gasp, a long awaited shock from ice-cold water. I want to stay forever.
Part of me, the sensible, smart, and stupid side, wonders if I shouldn't give in. After all, my life is real and dark, and it needs attention. Reality is always clamoring for center stage. It is the rightful firstborn, I suppose. I don't want to listen.
I want to escape to wonderland. It's easy to get to, you know. It is the remnant of Eden, a garden of adventure, hope, and sacrifice. It's Noah's rainbow, a promise of something better and yet to come.
I would call it a dream, but it did not come while I slept. I would call it a vision, but you would ask me to draw it, and I can't. So I would tell you that it's a feeling, but then you would want to know which one. There's not one. All I can do is try to tell you what it is like, the way Lucy tried - and failed - to retell the story in the magician's book.
Hers and mine are the same story, actually. I cannot say what it is. I only know that it's mine, that it's been given to me. A gift I don't deserve, but one I love. It is a remnant of Eden. It is good.
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