We follow them in complete faith, that their sharply tuned edges and points will lead us where we should go. We're so confident in them, we forget they're sharp.
We forget they're a weapon.
When they pierce our skin, we forget about it, because we stepped on them. Our fault. We made the mistake of following them chose to follow them, and didn't watch where our feet were landing.
By the end of the trail, we're left with small, red, bloody holes all over our feet, which we hate because they burn and sting which we're okay with, because we're finally where we're supposed to be. And everything is all right because now that we're here, nothing is wrong.
Because there's sunshine and trees, and soft, warm grass to run around in. Because we can laugh loudly and spin in circles, and watch the sun set and rise. Because we'll never fall asleep, never get hungry, never shed a single tear.
Because this is what death is like. Soft tears turn to lakes and ponds, where small, red fish swim around in tendril-like circles. Quiet screams turn to wind blowing around carelessly, whispering secrets in our ears and toying with our hair. Cuts, and bruises and trying, assaulting pain turns to warm blankets we lay on at night, watching the stars as they shine in the sky; our own, personal night light.
And everything's watching out for us, ready yo catch us if we fall.
So it's a quiet nightmare dream, silently lulling us into careful submission.
We'll rest quietly here until the ground closes up, and it's just us in a silver box.
Like those Arrows knew we'd always envied sleeping beauty.
Dreamland.
Soft, silent dreamland.
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