World Invented. After waking: eyes open, I see.

 

We are falling through, sinking into the ground, so to speak. Look down, wet leaves, smudged soil surfacing, everything is soft, but more beneath that, the substrate, down. Did you find the fantasy? Can you see the dreams you cannot place? Playing a cassette of voices you have never heard, projecting visions of people and things that you’ve never seen. Your hands rest on your thighs; the networks of your body, held in your hands, are exposed. Are you gifting that to me? 

 

Open eyes again and find a way to be amongst what is left when the season leaves us too.  You look beneath, lying on the natural ground that serves as a wall between you and the webs below.  You are sunken, reminded. More things hide as you find your finger softly swirling the burrow (you’ve found it). I think you told me you could live down there, but please come up for air when you need to. Live down there. This fantasy looks like yours, a rabbit away from the headlights, denned down, huddled. I will be there, the deer waiting at the burrow. We can graze together when you are ready. 

 

On top of the peaks now, there are forests in these mountains, but we are next to the water. Maybe sometimes we are in the water. Our soft faces and the animals, here in the World Invented. Permission granted and coaxed by a spirit taking the form of something that looks almost like something I’ve seen before, again, in a dream perhaps. At the water’s edge, following a whisper: be with me. 

 

We have moved now, resting on the trees, sitting upright on the wooden-legged, wooden stump. I am the Fay, so much that I can fly, but I’ll stay here, where everything is soft, diluted, wine-washed. So delicious on this fabric that has tied itself to the tree, this tree which is dripping an amber sap - this is spilt wine, I could sip it up, but it has already stained into the shape of your legs crossed beside me, hands resting. Someone’s hands are resting on my ankles. Underneath this tree, I mean beneath, there is something, but I am above, soft and winewashed. 

—

When Worlds are invented, it becomes a duty to explain them, and when we cannot, we must invite all else in to attempt the same. The Fay leading the transit, driving cars with no doors, so small we dismantle ourselves tied with a string, astray. These are Worlds Invented. Please invite me to yours. I know that you have found the burrow, but do you live there? Did you see, we do this together, but so alone?

 

Imagined realities, the images that situate themselves in familiarity, but moments of tension, pulling on a string tightly, which is: wet mossed ground, your foot–the rabbit’s, so full of luck, and mine, the deer footprints behind us. The familiar sits between the recognised form and object, and the accumulation of imagined fictions – the familiar poses itself the confrontation: is this familiar at all? You sit on the tensioned string of fantasy and familiarity, swaying. Invited to tie the bungee between two trees in a forest that might not exist, and sit–see–for a while. The invitation to imagine, with the gracious display of worlds that might exist, if we allow.