As he lies still, on the humid grass of his frontyard, a silver moon peeking behind the hill keeps a watchful eye over him, and ten little stars holding hands are dancing for him in a small flickering circle. He smiles. His eyes are open yet he is asleep. He dreams of a little boat, waltzing with the fish and the sea shells, under the same ten stars dancing, under the watchful eye of the same silver moon. A little breeze carries two little mist drops and lays them on his little nose. A lady beetle slowly climbs on his left cheek and curls up to rest.
He smiles again.
His life so far has been everywhere, but where he was. He would see it, stretch his arm to maybe touch it, or hold it even , but it would quickly fade away like a dream. His life, he thought, was supposed to be somebody else's. The gods must
have made a mistake when he got this lot, and his lot was certainly given to someone else, someone else who would not know what to do with it. Alas, all his life, all he could do was seek something he wanted very, very much, something he felt was his own, and which he somehow knew he could never reach.
As the lazy stems of grass gracefully sway, before caressing his bare skin, he wakes up. The boat is gone. But the stars and the moon are still here, dancing and watching over him. The lady beetle wakes up too, turns around to adjust its position, and settles down a little higher on his left cheek to rest. Three tears fill his lower eyelid but don't roll down. The stars twinkle a little stronger and a cricket sings a familiar song. A new smile finds its way back to his lips, a wide smile only on the right side, so not to disturb lady beetle's sleep. He closes his eyes and finds his boat, again, waltzing with the moon's reflection, again, waiting for him to go on a new wonderful quest of his true life and many things beautiful and grand.
And yet, for the first time in a long time, he feels that it doesn't really matter whether he leaves or stays where he is. Here is good, he murmurs to himself, maybe the best place he's ever been, or ever will be.
His docking island.
He looks up to the sky for a last few seconds, whispers goodnight to the dancing stars, silver moon, sleeping lady beetle, and all the little creatures of the little corners of his world.
Then he hops onto his rocking boat, with eager anticipation, and quickly, yet calmly, fades away in the wide, endless sea of a marvelous dream.