What Do You See When You Close Your Eyes?

Imagine:

A dust-streaked desert (they're always dust-streaked, what else is there in a desert?). Sun-baked, parched. Cracks in the ground, memories of rains past. It hardly ever rains here anymore. The soil remembers, though. The feel of water, seeping through the cracks, into the thick clay bed, into earth. The soil remembers, and wishes. And dreams.

Two figures:

One, a woman. Average height, features hidden in the folds of the rough scarf she wears to keep the dust out (black though, why black in the desert?). Every so often she runs a hand through her hair, it looks reddish brown (but it could also be the dust). She walks, step for step matching her companion, seemingly uncaring about the heat.

The man, a shock of wild hair (is it dark? black? blue?), pale, slight. He walks alongside the woman, footsteps matching hers. He wears something..undefinable. It may be a robe, may be a large piece of cloth. There are flames on it, and they seem alive, somehow. And his eyes, there but not there, seeing all things and none. They are both barefoot.

The wind picks up, suddenly. There is a cloud of dust, dry and choking, tendrils prying into nostrils, mouths. The man pulls the woman nearer, as she draws her veil/scarf closer to her face. The dust devil dies, dissolves, and the desert is still once more. Still and empty, for the figures are gone.

Imagine:

There is a beach of yellow sand, and whispering waves. The girl dreams, of this beach. There are shells, arranged neatly in rows. She dreams of the beach, and of the hot sand. The man is there, as well, though she does not realise. A shimmer of air, and he is gone. She does not see this. She sees the shells, and the sand, and runs to let the water lap at her feet.

Dream:

Of love lost and found and lost again. Of terrible things, and running away (oh my God it's so scaryscaryscary why can't I run oh please oh God). No, that's nightmare (you know, the ones where you can never run, where your feet feel like they're stuck in treacle). Of little tokens, of laughter, of family, songs sung, food shared, journeys taken.

But most of all, dream of hope.

In tribute to dreams, Neil Gaiman's Sandman, and also to that little spring in me that won't let me sleep until I write down its cooing, bubbling tales. I like to think I can actually write, sometimes. Good night, my friends. Sleep well.