It is wrapped in a light blanket of mist before me - the white cottage with the white picket fence, protected lovingly by graceful trees whose branches are coifed with rich plumes of green. Crocheted puffs of soft cotton glide gracefully in the brilliant blue sky overhead. Flowers dart in and out of the whitewashed picket fence, their delicate petals reaching up to dancing sunbeams. They drink up the warmth of the sun and sigh contentedly. Fine grass, spread over the ground like a velvet carpet, lines the walkway that ambles lazily up to the steps of the cottage, The door is slightly ajar, beckoning me to enter. I look to either side at the window boxes which overflow with cascading colors of fragrant flowers. Bushes stand at attention around the white cottage, neat and trim. I want to go to the cottage. It is a place of peace where birds sing their summer sonatas and crickets chirp in soft staccato outbursts. I move toward it, desiring its comfort and protection. I touch the gate which opens effortlessly and start up the walk. It is a place in my mind, a haven for a tortured soul.
by Susan
Susan is a member of our Bipolar Disorder community.
