The Way Our Eyes Render Out-of-Focus Points of Light

           Really not feeling my homework, even though I have so much to do that it'll cripple me in a couple hours, and probably for the next week.
            Let's talk about happy places instead.
            I really want to go camping. I want to go up to Washington Lake and be eaten by mosquitoes. Read some bad graphic novel, squish my toes in marshy mud, and listen to someone play "Wagon Wheel" on guitar to join in by the fire. Run up hills to take pictures of silhouettes against the moonlit lake water. Wake up to a stream maneuvering the rocks. Kids laughing and the occasional loud pop of a log on the morning fire.
            And then, of course, the fantasies of it all. Down the hills into the meadows filled with tall yellow and white flowers, small scatterings of purple wedged between fallen trees. At night the moon emerges from the clouds and fills this bowl up with silver. The petals flicker on the breeze and ring like bells. I fall to my knees and hide myself in the grass, afraid of disturbing this un-kept secret. My childhood amethyst heart breaks into daggers in my hand, but it's so beautiful I don't want to let it fall into the pools of mercury puddling at my elbows in the dirt. But I do, I cover up the pieces to a dull shine. Anyone looking down from the stars would see a space of clouded crystal buried in a square foot. Or they would, if all of the silver didn't layer itself over us, blankets of comfort to keep us from the invading roar.
            I want to go to the beach and take selfies with someone I love at noon and at sunset. I want to see fireworks on the darkening horizon. I want to make a flower crown and walk on water. I want to get out of everything I know to the comfort of an unknown that harkens back to our collective déjà vu.
            But I guess I really should get on that homework.