Dream’s Pat(c)hway

words by Ayat Younis, art by Nala Williams

Both Vaidehi Bhardwaj’s piece “love is verb” and Ayat Younis’ piece “Dream’s Pat(c)hway” were inspired by this piece of art by Nala Williams.

The gentle scent of lavender runs through my hair. Wind reminds me of her presence. She does this often, just as I am ready to leave. It’s her way of asking me why. Why leave a garden that has fed me everything an individual could want? With peculiar colors, vibrancy, and odd contrasts. Fruit with alluring scents, as if fairies themselves blessed them. But uniform. Static. Each color speaks to me, whispers of the blessings they could give me if I just stayed. How can I enjoy delicate colors and ornate florals if they never change? Never try something new. The same colors, the same slight movements each day. They constantly remind me why I can, but shouldn’t leave. Even if I wanted to, my roots keep me here, on the orders of Wind. I owe it to her to stay. I suppose. 

I will always be grounded in where I was born. My roots refuse to let me explore other places, in fear I may forever abandon them. My being has only ever remained stuck in the lively and blanded world I reside in. No amount of glamorous grounds or enticing flowers could change the fact I wake up every day the same. How can I call this land enchanting when I am to perform each day for everyone but myself? When I shine just for you, while the world around me falls further into darkness. 

But no, it is selfish of me to want to leave. My ability to care, to tend, to aid is needed here. What will the elders do without me? Who will lead the children? Who will serve as an example of resilience and class? My sympathy and keen insight into souls have a purpose here, even if I don’t. I am stranded and grounded in my place, fighting the urge to chase after Dream. 

My spot allows the perfect view of Dream. Her hair is a multitude of colors, changing every day, but never failing to compliment her magical eyes. Occasionally, she passes by me as she strolls down the path, her joyous aura catching me each time. Wind mocked her each time, whispering condescending and evil comments each time. Her strut is provocative, the wind would say. But I find it powerful, a reminder of her resilience—her refusal to be like us. Although she once was. Once, when she had a spot near me. But, I watched her fight and break off the roots. But perhaps that is part of becoming who you want to be. Forgetting your past, your history, your homeland. Pretending to come from a more favorable land. 

That’s all I had ever wanted. Her freedom.

As she continued to pass by, I mimicked her body language—the Wind’s critical voice wrapped around my ear. Uprooting my head first, I pushed my fatigued body towards the path. It smelled like golden freedom. The more I pushed, the more I watched wisteria grow over my bare feet. She continued to hang from my sniveling eyes, like the gardens of Babylon. The more I pushed, the more the Wind patronized me, painting me as an evil weed. She has left me unmoored, asking me why, how I could be so selfish. What would the baby blooms do if I were to abandon them? What Wind is unaware of is how they have already begun to mirror the spirited colors of Dream. 

The more I caught glimpses of Dream, the stronger I grew until a minor glow surrounded me. I commit myself to making a lark of my history, determined to cut off my roots. 

My coming of age has come and gone, suddenly the summer is clear. I never had the courage of my convictions, as long Wind was near. The farther I move away, the more I am without her blowing down my neck, I begin to mirror Dream. With every step I take, my surroundings blossom with ivies, inimitable flowers peeking out in every crack. My skin has an incandescent glow, authority flows through my veins, and I begin to feel unmoored. Free from the home I stayed in. 

I was once an ingenue, someone who dimmed every room she walked into. I feel quite the opposite, but I still ask, what will become of me when I begin to quiet down? When my light begins to flicker away, and I am nothing but the voice of ancestors who run through my blood? 

And if I do, I could never give you peace, I whisper, looking in the mirror. But perhaps, I’d rather never have peace than continue to be maimed by Wind.