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The Meeting Place. 

They can not see what I know.

In an undisclosed desert, dream world, a child meets an unknown being. The being speaks in a rhythmic tune that grows in speed as they lean closer to the child to inspect what they truly may be. With every word the spirit  speaks, with every inch they move,  the child grows no bigger than their thumb. In the darkness they both appear to be a candle and its wick. In the light they do not exist. 

Hello child. What do you want from me- do you wish to play. I like chaos. Are you ready for such things?  I make streams into oceans and plants into trees.  What do you need? I do not have children seeds, or baby plants, if you have come to me, you will grow, your limit will be unknown. 

The child nods. 

You have no voice it seems,or do you not wish to speak? Either way I am not bothered or pleased. If you are ready, we can begin. But first, I must know the fear you carry to me. Are you ready to shed? Are you ready to die, to become a tree for one night? 

The child nods. 

Of course, it will be longer than one night, but after the transformation, you will cease to remember anything but the wind and its unique blows.Those you love may come and visit but the majority of temporal souls do not have the will to persist,  to a place like this. In fact, how did you get here? You are close enough for me to kiss and yet you don’t seem to  be what you insist.  

The child smiles. 

Those who do arrive will be too afraid to taste your fruits, which makes them useless to you. 

The child giggles. 

You have a humor I see, older than you appear to be. I will ask you a question and I would like for you to use your voice. I want to hear you speak. How old are you, and how did you find me? 

The child smiles and picks up a stick and draws their age with big circles, marking the golden sand with a loose wrist. 

100- That can’t be, you seem no older than 15 and this speaks from your eyes, your body is no older than 9.    

The child sits down on the ground and begins to play a violin shaped sound from their chest, it sounds as if they broke through their ribs to play a tune that plucks on their own purple heart. A baritone beat begins slowly, it is deep and dark, the chaos of their own heartbeat is making its way into an ocean at their feet.

Their dream is screaming into a sound that is shaking the ground and calling the birds to bring a harmonious sweetness to the forest like symphony that this child plays.

The child is shaped like dust.  Their body is the colour of ash, the sound of them like a kaleidoscopic dream, a philosopher’s nightmare and a poet’s possibility. 

The spirit watches on in silence, delighted to see that finally they have a play partner that would not break easily. The child did not need to speak, in order to create. The spirit had enough words to make them create a portal or at minimum a chaotic gate of change.  This child had the ocean’s heat and they had come willingly. 

You can call me Cloud. 

The child giggled. 

 My real name is something no one speaks aloud. 

The child smiles, their teeth the only vision of their body.  All around them is a deep oceanic wave. The child and the spirit leave our dream place and came to a land much like yours, before they opened the chaos that you thought only lived behind mythic doors. 

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