Lovely Freedom

When do colors cease? Where does music fade? These questions have been hovering over my head like so many troublesome flies on a hot July day. I jump into my mind, so like a cool, underground lake in the misty passages inside of my colossal imagination. I swim slowly to the shore, pausing often to look at the liquid under me, where the lake seems to have no bottom. Finally, I climb onto the soft, phosphorescent sand, tired, wet, and happy. I wave a hand, and all of everything around me disappeared, to be replaced by a quietly flowing river, where I lay on the grass above the bank, shaded by some stately old elm tree that watches me like I am some errant, wayward child, to be recaptured by the butler and escorted home for afternoon tea. My Victorian dress dries slowly in this shade, but finally I leap up and grab my vintage hat, then run over to where he stands above me. When he spins me around, I laugh at the sight of his coat-tails flying behind him; he is so well dressed and proper, so dapper, that I make him stand still as I circle him and admire his finery, then I grab his hand and we run, we run forever, to eternity, to where the colors cease, to where the music fades; until there are only two young people left, dancing to the sound of their heartbeats.