As a writer, I am always making states of mind for myself, places where I can go, figuratively ride the dragon, that is a writer’s imagination. But my favorite of these places, is the small island with the chair under the tree.
If ever I find my mind clouded with imaginative blocks, I visit this place, a space for my head to clear and for me to create. I close my eyes and see the golden fields of soft wheat, leading to the old wooden bridge. I run my open hand past the soft wheat, reminding me of a cloud like pillow or a family members embrace. As I walk through the sunlit plains towards the old bridge, I feel the harmonic wind blow through me, soft chants and giggles can be heard. The creaky bridge is tied by rope to a post, it stretches far across a mirror ocean reaching and grasping to a small island, with a lone tree swaying to the chimes of the wind.
I feel the bridge sink from my weight making the wooden planks kiss the surface of the water, sending ripples to warn the island of someone approaching. I walk slowly across the rickety bridge noticing the vast rainbow of colors in the water below, the mirror ocean reflecting the heavens above. Blue stars mark out eyes and a multi coloured face, clouds close in over the stars like eyelids blocking out sunlight. In the distance a bright white boat surfaces, seeming to ride the clouds like some majestic creature.
I notice a strange incomprehensible feeling, seeing the star lit sky reflected on the now still water, like an exact copy. Clouds dance of the surface revealing the island, and the lone tree with a single chair. The sun rises from the depths of the sea and into the sky shooting rays of sparkling light through the leaves, the warmth streaks across my face. I step off the old bridge and onto the due covered grass, flattening the emerald blades and leaving foot prints to mark my path back like breadcrumbs. This is a place of peace and imagination, where I can make anything and everything happen from a thought. I collapse in the worn chair relieved to be finally sitting, my chest rises as I take a breath and I just listen. My hands clasp the arm rest, feeling the crevices of the peeling paint.
This place, this feeling is the closest thing to heaven. The tree whispers ideas and characters as the water sets scenes, and choreograph’s the dance of imagination. The sound of wings fluttering fills the air, I search the star mosaic sky for birds but found none. Flashes bounce off the water’s surface, it was books. Books from my childhood fly though the air circling me, the fluttering sound was not wings but pages rapidly turning. The flying books disappear into the horizon, the humming of changing pages slowly dies out.
A bronze leaf trickles into my hand, tickling my palm then swiftly leaving me to the wind. The trapped rays of sunlight leave my face, and run down my arms lighting my veins gold, finally reaching my fingertips and descending into the atmosphere. Like tiny balls of rain, the sunlight drops fly slowly upwards shimmering and confusing the mirror ocean below.
This is a world no film nor picture could capture, only through closing your eyes, can you see; the fields of wheat, the creaking bridge and the old wood chipped chair. Mirror scaled fish sail through the water, reflecting the mood of everything around it then disappearing into the blue stars below. The water chants me to come follow the fish, and dive into the heaven painted sea but that is another adventure for another visit. The hard chair pulls me back to reality and I remember why I came here, I had a story to write. – Ryan Ward