Young Writers Society

The leaves drift about on the floor,
beneath my open eyes.
I watch, silently, as the wind knocks them
to and fro, back and forth, across the autumn field.
I sit on a chair,
a bench that isn't there.
It doesn't need to be, not really,
not where I am.
I am safe here.
For I know what happens here,
because I can make it,
I can change it,
I can do whatever I want with it.
The leaves suddenly jump into the sky,
drifting high above me, though not as high as the clouds.
I smile - my own, secret smile,
the smile that only this reality sees.

The world shifts, changes beyond recognition,
until I sit once more upon a chair,
though it is real, this time,
actually here.
A small table, upon which my arms rest,
aching, tired, after a long hard day.
My friends from work sit beside me,
chatting along while we wait to be served.
I expect a waiter, a waitress, a shopkeep,
but nobody seems to be around.
Just a room, a building, full of people,
sitting, standing, waiting.

It changes once more, faster than before,
into a world I recognise as a friendly place -
at least to the one who created it -
it seems at peace, for now... will that change?
The sky is studded with stars,
blue, yellow, red, white, orange,
countless points of light, in a vast, unfathomable universe.
This is my universe,
my own creation,
my own world,
my own imagination.