Monday, 18 April 2011

Wake up, kids.

On dusty swings, we wiped sweat off our foreheads with our grubby hands that housed dirty nails. In the tall grass, we conjured exotic worlds from the maze of our imagination, we braided weeds into daisy chains and crowned ourselves and stained our knees with mud and blood, long limbs bruised all the way down like treasure trails. 

Catching ladybugs in marmalade jars, digging up worms in the backyard, nothing seemed short of adventure. The small trees that lined the garden grew ten stories tall and held homes of fiction, ones we lived in, high in the sky, we were blind to the fact our feet had never left the ground. Housecats wandered, we mistook them for tigers. Our knees pressed tight to our chests, in a land that no one else knew.

Idle actions with no purpose, we were caught up in reverie. Our white collared shirts stuck to our backs in the heat, lips hung open and eyes wandered lazily. It was the effect of the summer air, it had struck us all with the Dreamer's Disease.