I lay on the prickly brown-green grass, reading a book. I have a lot of time here, in this dream. This little town in the lap of mountains, pampers me. I feel like a baby again in possession of peace and happiness. I don’t worry about the bills, the job, the monies, the false friends and even the repercussions of being ‘myself’ with a kin. I am far away from all that – I’m with happiness here.
It’s a cold day. The sun doesn’t let me out of its sight even for a second. My fingers are cold and pale. I turn them carefully with my numb fingers – the old, fragile brown pages of the old book. I love its smell.
Not very far from me, is a small hut, smoke escaping its top and floating in white unshapely globs. The clear blue sky looks a shade lighter through them – I like that shade. I remember the cotton candy and hallucinate of a sweet taste. The fire should to be kept alive all day long. I love this house – it is warm and cozy even on the coldest day. It is very small though.
A very kind old lady owns the pretty house and I adore her. She has allowed me to stay in there. We don’t speak each others language and communicate in signs and smiles. I don’t know her name, she never tells me, I call her khala. She never asked my name but she calls me Zeba.
(Image: Google images)