The box was sitting atop a simple, round wooden table situated to the right of the room. Sunbeams were falling in at an angle from an afternoon sun and gleamed iridescently off the box. The box itself was a glass six-sided cube, clear and without a lid, pattern or flaw. It was about a foot wide and tall, almost perfect for toting in your arms.
Next there was a horse. It filled the majority of the space, which was forming into a grassy nook with a feeling of stillness. The horse seemed to be floating, but perhaps not because it also seemed very grounded. It was a palomino, with varying markings over its hide, a long and dark mane and tail, a white face, pink nose and glistening blue eyes. It was larger than the average palomino, muscular, and with an arabian face and structure. The sunbeams fell across it, too, and flickered on its hide to increase the impression of movement.
Flowers were the next addition. All over the grassy nook wildflowers suddenly blossomed, of different styles and differing heights, and in the varieties that I love. The buds were colored purple, yellow, and red. There wasn't a definite end in sight, and the line of flowers simply faded out behind the figure of the horse and table with the box.
A storm began to form. Wind was rustling over everything in the vision, swirling the flowers and the horse's mane. The box stood in its place resting atop the table, vulnerable, as the clouds scattered thickly overhead and the wind increased. The sunbeams were still angling down, and the box was shimmering under the crash and whip of the elements. Rain didn't begin and lightning never started, the wind and mood was enough to know.
Let's dare to psychoanalyze....
The box is, in essence, yourself. The horse, your future spouse. The flowers are your relationships. The storm is the way difficulties manifest themselves in your life.
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