Sometimes I tire of this rat-race society. Sometimes I tire of all the lights, the shows, the…the reality. I want to go find some haunted forest and talk to the ghosts of benevolent travelers. I want to find a rickety wooden swing in a decrepit garden, and I want to swing on that swing no matter how stable or safe it is. I want to wear some dreamy white dress that’s just a tad too big for me. There will be nobody except me, the wind, the evening sunset, and the soft choruses of secret dryads. The animals won’t talk, that’s too cheesy, but they’ll be drawn to me. We’ll be able to communicate. There will be a tiny brook that widens into a slow-moving river. I’ll swim–in that dreamy white dress–and I won’t be overtaken by currents. It will be late September, warm enough for a bit of sweat and cool enough for just a tad of shivering. I won’t wear any shoes, because the forest will be carpeted by soft grass and white, cotton-like flowers. I’ll have a flower crown and wind-blown hair. Most of all, I’ll be wondrous like I’m five again. I won’t have a care in the world. Everything will be mine, and I will belong to everything.