Chapter Three #2
Though I cannot assign names to any person glimpsed within these visions or distinguish the features of facial expressions with any precision, each memory succeeds in filling my being with a sense of contentment that proves entirely sufficient.
Nothing euphoric or ecstatic presents itself, yet neither does anything unpleasant or distressing intrude upon this gentle recollection. Everything is just nice.
After investing appropriate time in wading through these vague visions of my former existence, I transition to my assigned activities for the remainder of this particular moonturn.
The Bliss serves dual purposes, as I understand matters.
It provides an opportunity to revisit the past while simultaneously enabling forward progress with renewed purpose.
We receive both memories from long-concluded days and motivation for moments that carry significance in the present temporal location.
My heart has always belonged to the smallest and most vulnerable of creatures, particularly young children.
I have discovered my deepest passion resides in serving the needs of the innocent among us.
I know this truth about my essential nature in the same way I know my own name, though I cannot point to specific incidents that established this characteristic.
Here within The Bliss, I enjoy the fulfillment of this calling every single day without exception or variation.
The indistinct memories that somehow prove perpetually free from pain or struggle give way to my time at the school building, where my responsibility awaits.
The structure presents itself as utterly charming.
White clapboard siding gleams in the moonlight, and a bell tower rises from the center of the roof in classical style.
Flower beds surround the building on all sides, blooming in gentle pastels.
The interior proves equally agreeable, with a classroom that benefits from abundant light despite the absence of direct sunlight.
Small desks arrange themselves in neat rows, perfectly aligned.
Supplies rest in labeled bins that maintain impeccable organization.
Word has reached me that Seek, the guide who shepherds newly arrived children to The Bliss, shall be bringing newcomers soon. I find myself looking forward to welcoming fresh souls into our peaceful community.
The children currently in my care arrive in their usual quiet procession, filing through the door with tiny footsteps and gentle smiles.
They range in apparent age from perhaps five or six years to ten or eleven, though all share that same peaceful contentment that characterizes every soul residing in The Bliss.
“Beautiful tidings, Miss Maddy,” they speak in perfect unison.
“Beautiful tidings, my dears,” I reply, moving to assume my position at the front of the classroom.
My particular specialty involves instruction in the arts. I teach painting and drawing, music and crafts, creative expression unburdened by pressure or judgment. We pursue joy without the corruption of competition, beauty without the anxiety of comparison.
Today’s lesson centers on watercolors, the most forgiving of mediums.
I demonstrate the proper technique with careful deliberation.
One must first wet the brush to precisely the correct degree of saturation.
How the colors may be encouraged to bleed into one another, creating transitions of remarkable subtlety.
How weathered washes of pigment bloom across the paper in the manner of flowers opening to greet the morning light.
The children paint with focused silence.
A girl with blonde braids carefully constructs a sunset rendered in pinks and oranges.
A boy, whose face carries a generous sprinkling of freckles, creates what might represent a tree or possibly a person.
The shapes remain vague and undefined, yet the overall effect proves undeniably beautiful.
Not a single child attempts to paint subjects that might be considered sad or disturbing or unpleasant in any capacity.
Here, we seem to lack the knowledge of how such representation might be accomplished, as though that particular aspect of artistic expression has been gently removed from our collective understanding.
The moonturn progresses in that gentle, timeless manner characteristic of all experiences within The Bliss. The children finish their paintings with careful attention, clean their brushes thoroughly, and file out through the door with the same quiet grace they displayed upon arrival.
“See you again, Miss Maddy!”
“Goodbye, Miss Maddy!”
“Until the next time,” I agree, raising my hand in farewell.
As I return to my cottage, the moon shifts its position in the sky, now appearing fuller than it did when I first woke.
Or perhaps that observation pertains to the yester moon rather than the beginning of this moonturn.
Time moves with such peculiar fluidity here that distinguishing one cycle from another proves remarkably challenging.
Inside my cottage, I settle into my chair beside the window and gaze outward at The Bliss beyond.
The pastel cottages glow softly under the moonlight, and the cobblestone paths wind through the landscape like rivers seeking the sea.
Nothing ever changes here, and I find this constant entirely acceptable.
At the very least, everything remains pleasant. Everything stays peaceful. Everything continues exactly as it should.
I feel grateful that this profound calm is not disrupted by unexpected variations. I cherish the quiet that this existence grants me, and I cannot imagine anything I might desire that would justify disturbing the harmony of my days, which repeat in a similar fashion day after day, endlessly.
The moon observes through my window with its inscrutable face, neither judging nor approving, simply witnessing.
I rise from my chair and draw the lace curtains closed. They glide shut with smooth perfection, meeting in the center without gaps or irregularities. I then prepare for bed with the same methodical care I apply to all activities.
Each moonturn will prove identical to this one. The turn that follows will mirror it, and so the pattern shall continue indefinitely, each moment a repetition of countless moments already experienced.
I wake each time with no specific memory of previous events, retaining only the persistent feeling that everything exists precisely as it should—pleasant, peaceful, perfect.
And I am content with this arrangement.
Am I not?
I slip beneath the covers of my bed, where sheets maintain their perfect softness and temperature adjusts itself to ideal comfort, and I close my eyes in anticipation of sleep’s arrival.
Sleep comes with its customary ease, as it always does and always shall.