She starts to feel her body slowly slipping into the cool cotton beneath her. She struggles to get more comfortable under her sheets; the air feels cold and damp. Each rhythmic breath she takes sends her into a deep relaxation; they are in sync with the oceans gentle fury. The moon spills a milky beam of light through her window; particles of dust can be seen dancing among one another. It is getting later and later, and she is puzzled by her inability to fall asleep.
It has been years since she has retreated back to the cottage. A cottage that looks as it did 50 years earlier. The antique white and blue rocking chair is still in the corner of the porch, rocking once in a while to the frequent salty breezes. The creaking in the floor boards and the lack installation never mattered to her. She thought it gave the place character. It is nice to feel the wind come in through the windows unexpectedly, and having to steadily scamper towards the wood framed glass in attempts to close it quickly.
This post card of a place was her sanctuary. A place for her to slowly gather her thoughts, and de clutter the chaos that sporadically appears; uninvited. She always had a mental template of how her life should be, all neatly categorized in sections ranging from; work, school, family, miscellaneous, and of course love. She should already know by now that planning does not fit into every aspect of any individual’s life. Nevertheless, she strives onward in attempts to achieve the impossible.
Her body is starting to feel heavier now, and it becomes hard to resist the seduction of sleep. All is silent now, the ocean becomes muffled air, and her breathing deepens even more.
The heat almost feels unbearable, and the air is thick and humid. By the time her eyes adjust to the light she realizes that she is standing barefoot. The earth is warm and soft beneath her. An overwhelming sense of calm fills her body as she starts to follow the dirt path before her. She passes lush greenery, lightly brushing her hands against the leafs. They are wet with dew, and feel of satin. Clusters of blood orange and yellow flowers line this dirt path. Every tree seems to admit a glow of some sort, fire flies, birds, and butterflies dance together in slow motion. She walks towards them with curiosity. Wings flap and flutter with one another gently, the array of their colors and patterns can be clearly seen with each gust of air. A mixed sweet aroma fills her senses, she closes her eyes, tilts her head back and breathes in. A faint sound of a waterfall can be heard somewhere down the path.  Intrigued, she makes her way down , occasionally looking up at the sky that is torn down the middle. One side is day, and the other is night. The light side is a combination of turquoise and emerald-green. The dark side is nothing but ribbons of deep purple and sapphire. The stars look as if they were created by the tip of a needle a jabbing needle.
She steadily makes her way down the path, searching for this musical waterfall. The sound seems to be getting further and further. Suddenly, the earth beneath her begins to shake, the rocks along the path begin to levitate, and the wings of the fluttering creatures freeze.  Thunder crashes, and what looks like a far end of tunnel starts to roll towards her. Its blackness is over whelming, it starts to swallow everything in its path. She tries to yell, but her voice is no more; just a swollen ball of silence in her throat. Her feet become paralyzed, and as she looks down to release them she sees her reflection in the glittering earth. She knows it is her, but something is off, the face staring back at her is of an old woman. A loud siren blares, then blackness.
The clock set neatly on the nightstand flashes back the almost too familiar numbers; 3:15. She sits up promptly, and sloppily throws her hair into a pony tail. The bedroom window had opened again, as if just to irritate her. The oceans air heavily leaked in, creating a salty film over her skin. The orange and jasmine candle she lit before she fell asleep was still dimly lit, everything was in place. This recurring dream is starting to become another puzzle, another something to add to her chaotic mental template.

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