In the heart of that suspended wandering, of that drift with no shore and no compass, as my steps no longer answered to anything but the weariness of being, I saw it.
Not an illusion. Not a mental projection or a psychic escape. No.
I truly saw it.
It was there, in front of me, tangible in its mute beauty, with a presence too calm to be real, a peace almost offensive: a field.
An immense field, without edge, suspended in the void like a forgotten promise, an island of respite condemned to float for eternity in a world with no sky.
But it was not made of earth.
It wasn't composed of soil, nor of rock, nor of raw matter — no, nothing I knew.
This field… it seemed woven. Woven into absence itself, into the very breath of dream.
Millions of strands, vegetal but unreal, threadlike and delicate, rose in slow undulations, of such a pale green that it became almost transparent, diaphanous, bathed in inner light.
