I decided quickly on a crisp Saturday morning in the month of August to book a flight with The Cloud Moving Air Balloon Extravaganza. Every neat ending point of my life had lead to this day. The canary yellow dress I’d selected for the occasion had presented itself with a curtsey. Braids woven with silver thread swept across my shoulder blades, directing bluebirds on their homeward path. Reginald called. He spoke my name. It was all he had to say. A prediction that had marched on desert dunes smashed the mahogany frame that had enclosed my being. The air held a defining promise. I knew I was ready. I placed a Hadrian silver sesterce in my breast pocket. The veil that swept across my vision, dissolved. Instead of opening my eyes I closed them into my dreams. A valley ripe with parchment grew beneath my feet. My ruby slippers clicked three times. I lingered as the balloon rose higher. I flew alone inside a woven basket, wiping my tears into the history of its scent.
It could be different
It will be what you conceive it to be.