Journey to the Light

In the waiting room, she attempts to adjust. Her senses struggle to acclimatise to the translation; her ethereal body lumps and bumps into new areas, tests its unbounded skin. She closes into self, rationalises the pastel pigmentation as dreamscape, lets her eyes fall and open, fall and open. Still here. A pamphlet appears in her palms, reads itself into a moon cloud, pillows its poem against the walls. It looks like comfort, like consolation. If only it were a dream.