In a Field of Paper Flowers

1

The rustling of the gentle wind gliding through the leaves lulled me into a dreamlike state. Under the maple tree I sat, thinking; Who am I?
I didn't exactly know. I was a woman of many faces. One who constantly changed herself to meet the expectations of others. To me, one's a crowd
But I didn't mind the crowd when I was with Lillia. She was just about the only genuine thing in my little world of lies and illusions. I remember our little adventures by the creek. I remember how I felt when I wasn't around her. Lost. Hopeless. Miserable. Yet for some reason, at peace.
These days, I can only remember portions of our adventures together. It's just a hazy blur of events. A reflection of the person I used to be. For my life back then was merely a dream. I am just a castaway from this strange little realm called reality.
Am I living a dream or a nightmare? I cannot
tell, for their pain no longer differs in my eyes. It's complicated, see? I'm complicated.
My heart is a jigsaw puzzle, broken apart and pieced together so many times that I've gotten used to it. My mind is just a figure of patience. It remains in a never ending trance, waiting for a day that may never come.
The day I see her again. If I could do it all again, I would. I'd suffer all of the pain, all of the sacrifice; Just to be able to play my songs on my little tin whistle, while my friend listens to every noise I blow. It was my silent orchestra, just me and my whistle. And my audience, consisting of Lillia and the nature. Notes carried by the breeze, fading into a soft and gentle harmony. Those notes just like my life.
The present reflects the past. So familiar, yet forever changed. I lie awake at night, thinking about the past, when thought I knew who I was. I didn't know better. I was lying to everyone. I lied to myself. The mask it wore was far less horrible than reality itself. Reality was my fear, my weakness, my Achilles heel. I simply hated it. But with my friend, my Lillia, reality never bothered me. It was like a fantasy, just us two. I remember giving her that stone that I'd painted. It was simple, just one of our cherishable little trinkets. I'm sure she thinks nothing of it now. After all, it's just rock, polished by the creek 's endless flow. And it's natural for someone to outgrow certain things, certain places. Certain people. I feel as if I've outgrown myself. I wonder if she's outgrown me, though.
So here I stand today, wishing to go back. Dreaming of moments forever lost, and waiting for a better day to come. Forever hoping that I could once again know who I really am.