Past the Post Office

The post office was open this morning.  I had prepared myself for a repeat disappointment, not understanding why it had been closed in the first place.  That if would be open seemed somewhat impossible.

But it was open, and there was no line.  It took only a matter of minutes to release the immense drama that had been building for the past day. So I walked outside and stood by my bike in the warm winter sun, wondering what I should do.  Go home, I guess.  And then as I was riding I found myself turning left on a street that hadn't existed before.  And then another left on another street that hadn't existed, past some topiaries, past some rice fields.  I created a whole neighborhood of streets and homes and gardens, spun out from the tires of my bike.  I found the edge of creation, a street that had existed before, a road I already knew, and I turned back into the unknown to create some more.

I found a temple tucked in a grove of trees with several crows breaking the silence as they tumbled down branches.  I stepped into a world within a world.  Sunlight sparkled among the leaves as I walked, followed me like stars, glistening.

I got back on my bike and created some more.  A park, with some swings and sleeping cherry trees, more houses, more parks.

When I became immersed and felt the tinge of being lost, I happened onto a street I'd recently created, and rode into the portal that would take me past the still-open post office, home.