the mercy of a dream

Landscape from a Dream by Paul Nash

I was walking in a particular garden of youth when I saw a plethora of origami flowers standing near the fences. I walked a little closer and noticed the sentences scribbled in the dry paper petals. They were wishes, written by unknown people in these counterfeit works of nature – paper pansies, primroses, marigolds and sunflowers of middling sizes, among others.

Why, I wonder, were they placed here, where no one except me could visit? I had the feeling that it’s a heinous gesture to want to know more about them, though I don’t know why as well. Should I ask the ubiquitous butterflies surrounding me? In any case, the one who made those flowers seemed to be quite finicky with their works. Maybe they were also the ones who wrote those wishes? I’m not sure.

And then, just as I was about to leave, I noticed the marble tablet in the fence, hidden behind the thousands of colorful origami. It reads “In here lies my most beloved flesh, an empty vessel of sorrow, wrapped in ribbons of red, ready to be presented as a gift to the world.”

A burst of silent wrath coursed through my veins, urging me to disinter the corpse and somehow save it from it’s underground prison. I seem to have an affinity for the one buried. And so, bolstered by an extreme sense of urgency, I shoved my fingers through the flower bed. I crumpled hundreds of those meticulously crafted origami and threw them to the side. I was like a ruffian sneaking into someone else’s property in order to steal something. But somewhere deep inside, I knew that this is right, that this very act is imbued by every fiber of justice that there is in this universe.

Moments later, I was staring at the corpse’s face like I was looking at myself in the mirror. It was then that I knew why I should’ve fought, how I should’ve died, and for whom I should’ve sacrificed my life for. The clarity pierced through my soul like shards of the rarest diamonds. I couldn’t stop crying.

And then suddenly, I woke up.

I am a blogger, poet, artist and an aspiring novelist. Through Iridescent Anatomies, I advocate for idea journaling, therapeutic writing and other introspective work.

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