Camphor

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I dreamed about a single Camphor tree by the cliffs. Towering mountains clashed together behind a gaping river thousands of meters below. The field grows knee-high rye, it was a field of gold that stretches beyond the horizon. 

The rye clears in only one region: where the Camphor tree is. I could see a figure, recling by the tree. The figure remains idle, back against the auburn tree bark and his eyes shut. The ground tremored when he sluggishly welcomed light onto his outstretched arm, face, and into pupils. 

From behind the tree he withdraws a transparent vase. In the act of upending it, the rays of midday sun shot into my eyes and I was temporarily blinded by the brilliance of the boy and his vase. 

He sees me now, he takes me as an intruder. I wanted to say I mean no offense: I will bring him no harm. His delicate body sank, shaking his head as he went down. 

The vase, containing all that is glorious, explodes and glass propelled forward across the rye field. The cliffs cried, the Camphor tree branches snapped apart. 

I rush to the figure, but he is biting into the shard, blood hugs the edges where the mouth meets the glass. I pick up the figure, whose blood gushes down his chin. Almost immediately he sinks from my hands and a new patch of rye appears beneath me. 

I feel a wave of heaviness, and I recline at the bottom of the Camphor tree. The skies clear, and the shards disappear. 

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