She looked into the sun and it stung her eyes, and she sneezed.  Why do people sneeze when they look at the sun?  She was no scientist; only a dreamer, only a maker of art, only someone who could understand the sun as a bringer of daylight, as a symbol of life and spring and hope and summer and cotton candy by the lake and drinks on the patio.  She resigned herself to the fact that she would only ever think of the world as a series of dreams and hopes and good songs.  It would never be a core, or layers of rock or sand.  Reducing it to these flat, bland scientific terms would be wrong.

One night, she was walking home and the night was quiet and forbidden.  Moisture lay thick and she breathed it in, the heaviness of the beginning of summer.  She lay down on a slope of grass in front of an apartment building.  The green glowed a glossy silver in the shade of the moon.  She looked up at the sky, dirty with flecks of starlight.  Please, she asked.  Please don’t ever ever break my heart again.  Because in the grand scheme of things, the swirly watercolours of the milky way, the miles and miles of jet-black universe, planets and moons and summers and autumns and countless leaves that have fallen and re-grown on every deciduous tree on earth… it was the one thought she could hold onto.

Because she was no scientist, no logician, she wasn’t smart or brainy or out to discover anything about the concrete nature of the universe.  She was only a dreamer.


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