Ethereally written

You run toward the lawn behind the bar, adjacent to a small pond. A wide bed of long lush grass spreads tauntingly in front of you and you swiftly lie down without hesitation. The average person underestimates the luxury of laying in a bed of soft, weedless uncut grass. The blades surround every inch of the body’s perimeter, tickling corners and exposed skin you may not want it to touch, hugging like miniature arms. Its one inconvenient flaw is that grass blood will eagerly find fabric and set up camp there. This makes it unwise to allow grass near a white dress, especially after finally buying a dress of the purest, boldest, most blinding shade of white instead of traditional petite black. Regardless, the resulting euphoria from laying in the grass holds much higher value than the cost of the garment.

You wish the ground would suck you down already. Perhaps if your fingers sifted through the grass blades deeply enough, the earth will absorb you years before your body’s expiration date and you may sink into the chilled damp dirt. Maybe you would fall through the ground beneath and land in a hidden underground world where all of your daydreams would come to life. Still above the Earth’s surface, you close your eyes and wait for the intense spinning sensation to end. You try pressing your toes hard against your oversized boots just to evoke some feeling of control. The temptation to toss the shoes into the property’s murky pond was growing unbearable. You outstretch your arms, scraping the elegant lace sleeves against the lawn, beginning a grass angel. You raise them until they stretch perpendicular to your body, as if this could aid your balance the way it does while standing. You lie nearly in anatomical position, except that your hands still grip the grass, your single safeguard while you ride nature’s hula hoop. You turn your face to rest in the playful lawn. Time to sleep.