Nothing can exist for long without dreaming. This is why I left when my mother died; I had nowhere to go but far away, a place of my own dreams.

I can’t feel any longer, but that’s okay because I can see. I see beautiful bright colors—reds, blues, yellows—dancing across the sky. People call for me—sometimes I can hear them—but I never answer back. Here I have all of the calming, comforting silence I could ever want. Yes, it gets lonely, but then I remember that the reason I came here to begin with was solitude. Sometimes the solace of singularity is the only way to escape a world of overwhelming reality.

One morning, lying under a bright pink tree, I stare up at the bright foliage, the cool wind gently stirring through the branches. It occurs to me that the cherry blossoms smell similar to my mother’s thick perfume. I have difficulty remembering much more of her, the cloying sweetness of her fragrance the only thing I can find in my head. I try to recall my mother’s face. She had brown eyes didn’t she? Or green? All I can remember at this moment is the dull grey of steel, the empty blue of glass, and a deep, sanguineous red.

It is often hard to recall what life was like before I went away. Sometimes when I lie down I realize I cannot conjure the images of the things with which I was once so familiar. The first time I felt this I was sad, but I’ve come to accept it as a reality now.

In the faint distance one evening I hear a chatter of songbirds, their calls eerily familiar; I must have heard their cries before. I wonder why they suddenly sound distressed, and when I look up I realize. Storm clouds are stirring in an ominous grey circle above me. This is strange, I wonder, for it has never rained here before.

I try to think of the last time I’ve felt the soft patter of raindrops on my skin. For a brief moment I remember. It must’ve been the night I left. I remember seeing dark drops falling in front of me. My mother is sitting next to me, her eyes—green eyes!—centered in concentration, even fear. I hear a loud screech as she gasps and my vision blackens. This is when my memory ends.

I am overwhelmed. It can’t rain here, I shout to the intensifying gusts of wind around me. It can’t!

Lightning flashes in the faded horizon. I hear thunder crash, first regularly, like a heartbeat, and then erratic. The colors are fading; I can almost feel again. Tears run down my cheeks, mourning for the colors around me, for the returning sense of warmth in my fingertips. The rain is cold and I shiver.

Suddenly I hear a voice. Her voice! I must be hysterical, I think. She’s gone!

Her sobs collect. I feel more and more droplets upon my cheek. I can no longer stand. I feel myself falling even deeper, trying to escape, trying to find the colors again.

Wake up! she sobs. Please, wake up!