by Cheryl Chen
Sometimes, I breathe in a dream, and when I exhale, it appears before me, phantom settings being built right before my eyes. In my line of sight is a crackling fire, framed by brick, but no less lively, spitting out embers and sparks as any fire would, being built from wood. I can feel rather than see the glow of its light on my face, bathing in its orange warmth, making me feel entirely too hot and much too comfortable at the same time. As I stare into the flames, I can feel my eyes water and yet, dry up, and in the haze that is produced between the two states, I can see images of something else, and then, everything shifts.
That warm glow reminds me of something else, something softer, smaller, more magical. I blink and open my eyes to an open field. Sometimes I can see pops of purple and smell a thick, flowery and herby perfume in the air, but more often, I see shadow, the full moon being the only source of light, and I can feel dense grasses around me, fresh and green in the sun, but dark and mysterious in the night. From those shadows emerges one light, then another, and another, until the air is filled with little dots of brightness, all from the same source: fireflies. I can feel my breath catch in my throat, a little gasp of wonder escaping as I gape at the world unfolding in front of me. The moment is broken by nothing, not the slow warm-up of the grasshoppers and cicadas near the trees around the field, not the distant howls of animals, nothing. It is pure magic: no more, no less. Happiness bursts within me, spreading like warm honey, sweet and slow. I am content there, but it doesn’t last. It never does, for I need only blink again, and I’m back in a blank room, boring and unwelcoming as ever.
