Monday, June 28, 2010


I don't really know what to call it besides a memory, even though I have yet to set foot on anything passed New York. It's like the childhood memory you cling to because you remember how you felt, you remember the atmosphere, the smells, the tastes and you want to go back to it so bad it almost breaks you down. It's something like that, but the odd playing factor is I have never been, but it makes me feel like a kid again just thinking about it.
I see myself standing in what at best can be describe as a field of wheat. The time of day isn't certain but the sun is setting and the the sky is a brilliant mix of red, a certain burnt orange color and faded shades of pink. The wheat, normally that ugly spider's back brown is transformed into small pillars of fire catching the colors from the sun, and like a perfect reflection lower down the stalks the color fades into the darkened orange. The air is still, and has the smell of a fresh cut lawn and clean linen. The scarce haze in the atmosphere reflects at just the right angle to make you think your dreaming, and the insects flying around the lingering specs of wheat caught in the air is makes me wonder what time of year it is, the air is warm, inviting and calm and the one thing that stands out is the large tree just to the right of my vision and the best part of it all is it feels like home, like where I am supposed to be.

Just so you know. This is a real occurrence in my head. Not a short story, not a song or anything along those lines. That is why I really do not know where it comes from.

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