Far Away Sunshines

The day after she turned 20, the world was blue and grey and then the day became a deep navy night. She was reaching up though she was tall enough lying down, groping the ceiling for answers, pretending that the glow-in-the-dark stars were really far away sunshines and not plastic impersonators, listening to late-night radio, watching cats criss-crossing in the alleyway below her window.

Flowers grew and bloomed in the space of a day. She planted seeds weekly. The plants grew and her room became a dense forest full of every kind of plant you've ever heard of. Every kind of plant on the Earth. She slept and her room became the Earth condensed into a thick fog. It swirled around her like someone was breathing it out, it curled up toward the sky and then disappeared and she found its existence comforting. She was solid, undeniably real even when she doubted it, even after a birthday signifying an ending. Almost adult; dizzying. Occupying the space between the big numbers, between 18 and 21, endings not yet ended and nothing yet begun. Nothing and everything.

The fog in her room only existed for a second and then it was gone, having attached itself to the atmosphere and disappeared into the sky.