The soft breeze at my back, shifting my hair around my neck. Clouds on a flat expanse of the brightest blue. Green rolling plains surround me, and the peaceful movement of the sheep quell the ever-present anxious spirit of my long forgotten New York City. A calm unlike any other envelops my being as I examine a place so familiarly unfamiliar to me. So drastically different from my home, the spirit of Ireland has swept me off of my feet. The country fresh air, the friendliness of the country folk, my namesake. I stick out like a sore thumb, but if souls were able to be seen by all, you would think that I were born and raised on this land. Thousands of miles away, in my bed under the skies of the city, still I dream of Ireland, my Ireland. When I sleep, my heartbeats the stories of that distant place that has sewn it's ancestry and folklore into my veins. I lay here and imagine my body lain upon those grassy plains, I imagine that my ceiling is that bright blue sky, and I watch the clouds go by. My eyes flutter closed, and I'm back there in my Sleep. An every night occurrence, this is not as unusual to me as it seems, for I have left my heart in Ireland, the land of my dreams.
