A day in the life of an imaginary reality
it’s seven am in the most wonderfully average-sized cottage, and the world is quiet.
quiet, where the birds whisper outside, sharing early morning gossip. where the dishes sing and
the faucet hums as it fills the kettle. soft snores drift into the kitchen and it is the most lovely way to
awaken.
where hot tea burns tongues, chasing off the bitter flavor of green mornings. where lips curl to
banish the steam.
where a hand reaches for a phone and an old speaker, turning them both on and quietly feeding
the room a honeyed melody. where an off-tune rendition rumbles on humming lips.
where paper crackles like a dying fire between fingers. where a drop of tea stains a page and the
story doesn’t realize.
the morning is not silent, but quiet. sounds fill the little world, but not noise. there won’t be noise
until the others wake up, offering forehead kisses and bubbling laughter.
but when they do, the quiet is not missed. the noise is its own sort of peace.
for there is a certain freeness to seclusion.
where smiles like rays of sun reflect the sky glinting in the grass. where the wind tastes like
liberation on the breath and the clouds are soft and itchy the way wool is.
where the closest homes are miles away, but it doesn’t matter because all the people one needs
are holding hands, warm palms against warm palms, feeling the smoothness and the veins and the
wrinkles beneath a calloused thumb.
quiet, where the birds whisper outside, sharing early morning gossip. where the dishes sing and
the faucet hums as it fills the kettle. soft snores drift into the kitchen and it is the most lovely way to
awaken.
where hot tea burns tongues, chasing off the bitter flavor of green mornings. where lips curl to
banish the steam.
where a hand reaches for a phone and an old speaker, turning them both on and quietly feeding
the room a honeyed melody. where an off-tune rendition rumbles on humming lips.
where paper crackles like a dying fire between fingers. where a drop of tea stains a page and the
story doesn’t realize.
the morning is not silent, but quiet. sounds fill the little world, but not noise. there won’t be noise
until the others wake up, offering forehead kisses and bubbling laughter.
but when they do, the quiet is not missed. the noise is its own sort of peace.
for there is a certain freeness to seclusion.
where smiles like rays of sun reflect the sky glinting in the grass. where the wind tastes like
liberation on the breath and the clouds are soft and itchy the way wool is.
where the closest homes are miles away, but it doesn’t matter because all the people one needs
are holding hands, warm palms against warm palms, feeling the smoothness and the veins and the
wrinkles beneath a calloused thumb.