Lucidity

A Soft Place to Land

I'm home.

I've been here before, but not like this. I've fallen into photos and lost myself in a labyrinth of high-definition images. I've recreated this place in my imagination and spent countless hours exploring it. I've watched it come to life behind my eyelids, a fleeting image that quickly succumbs to dreamless sleep. This may be the first time I'm truly here, but I'm finally home.

Stardust ripples around my feet, evidently reeling with aftershocks from an ancient supernova. Magenta, rose, and fuchsia clouds radiate with blinding light and life. Stars dance around me teasingly, tempting me to join, but I'm too awestruck by the majesty of it all. I can do nothing but gape. I sink into cushions of stardust and allow the stellar nursery to cradle me, shielding me from the uninviting depths of space outside. Although it's inspired me all my life, the Hubble Space Telescope should envy me now; I'm living in the core of the Great Orion Nebula.

The hovering heaps of clouds part slightly, revealing a silhouette against the glistening starlight. Specks of cosmic light rush to meet it, summoned by the graceful beckon of a human hand. Illuminated by the starlike servants, the shadows obscuring her face are chased away.

I swear she's a statue, looming over a Greek temple, an inanimate goddess. Such beauty and commanding presence seem impossible for any living, breathing woman. Only her face, expertly carved of copper, proves otherwise. Her rich brown eyes are deeper than space and full of infinitely more stars. Long, ebony hair ripples in luminous waves, defying the vacuum of space. The softest hint of a smile is so inviting, so familiar, like greeting an old friend— someone you've known so long that you can't remember how you met.

Her flowing sundress seamlessly fades into the clouds around her; its matching magenta and simple design seem tailored to her surroundings, as though not to distract from her beauty. Centered in the divot between her exposed collarbones is an obsidian tattoo. Upon closer examination, I identify it as a sun symbol, simple enough to be drawn by a child: a small circle surrounded by tiny dashes that represent rays of sunlight. Perhaps it speaks to her radiance, or how she draws stardust into orbit.

The stardust beneath my feet escorts my levitating body closer to the goddess. As I approach, she extends a slender, elegant hand toward me. I try to raise my own, eager to accept her invitation, but I find myself in excruciatingly slow motion. I've waited so long to see more of this paradise, to explore my new home, and her friendly smile promises that she'll be my guide. The goddess parts her lips to speak, to surrender some piece of information that I desperately need, some secret that can answer all of my questions—

But instead of words, an ear-splitting shriek erupts from her mouth. The explosion of sound starts and stops like a struggling engine. The nebula rumbles violently, dragging me away from the woman and toward the blackness of space. My vision shakes and my teeth chatter as I struggle to find my footing, but of course, there's no support to be found. I fumble for her hand in a foolish final effort to grab onto her, but it's far too late. Even with the blaring screams, the violent vibrations, and the chaos that tears the world apart, she maintains that same soft smile.

Now I'm falling, falling fast, falling into oblivion; my stomach lurches and my heart leaps out of my chest and my eyes fling wide open.

Fumbling in the darkness, I slam a fist into the source of the shrieks, silencing it aggressively. I'm filled with fervent frustration, and I briefly consider punting my alarm clock across the room. Instead, I flump back onto my mattress and groan into my hands. This happens every time. I've had this dream before, and every damn time, it gets interrupted, leaving an insatiable curiosity gnawing at me.

I know who the woman is. I've never met her— at least, not that I remember— but there's a photo on the mantle, on the fridge, on a bedside table. She looks like me; rather, she looks like a surreal version of me. A version that's beautiful, elegant, and confident. A version I am not, and cannot be.