Do you remember the place where whispers grow? Beneath the great twisting willow trees that never stopped dancing even when there was no wind? The sky was always just a shade away from night, yet the sun never seemed to set, always clinging to its golden-orange haven. Imaginary friends, hiding behind the curls of giant mushroom stalks, peeking, giggling softly like the wind playing tricks on the sleepy leaves. And there was a path, oh such a curious path, snaking away into the underbrush, dotted with glittering pebbles that shimmered in every color possible, whispering secrets only understood by those who dared to follow. Have you followed it? The path? I did once, long ago but not so long, when dreams felt real and reality felt like a dream with edges blurred like the watercolor paintings left out in the rain, forgotten, crying into the puddles.
Would you like to listen?
The whispers dance, they always do.
A shadow slipped. Did you see it? Or did you not? It almost seemed like a trick of the light, or perhaps a trick of the mind, playing shadows in shadows like the games silly old cats play with fireflies. And the creatures, the creatures that skitter just at the edge of sight, do they sing the songs that make you smile? Or do they hum the tune that makes you forget how to breathe? I wonder, wonder, but it doesn't matter because you won't tell anyone. Will you?