The Dream Wears Wings

The Dream Wears Wings by Natalia Lakes

To stand inside the moment captured in this painting is to experience the metaphysical from within the angel's own essence.

You are part of the painting and the painter, the sea and the salt, the question and the revelation. You are not visiting a dream. You are the dream, wearing the body of divinity like a second skin. It feels euphoric. There is no gravity here, only grace.

The dress you wear is made of silk: green like forest shadows. It catches starlight and flickers opalescent. It moves as though it’s alive— against your skin. The hem trails behind like a blessing. You feel every thread against your body.

These wings are not symbolic. They have mass. There’s dense pressure along your shoulder blades. They stretch with intention, like opening a sail in the wind. Not muscles—more like wills of their own. You don’t flap them; you enter alignment, like balancing atop a current of silent power. When you leap, you don’t fall. There’s no downward pull. Each wing moves with the weight of an oar dipped into honeyed fog. They respond more to emotion than to thought. Your entire body becomes fluent in buoyancy.

The air is dense with salt and cool moisture. It carries the sharp tang of seaweed with a sweetness beneath it. You can smell the wet stone from the seaside monastery walls—cold, porous, holding the memory of centuries of storms. The air carries the faint, elusive trace of jasmine and wild roses, perhaps growing unseen in the rocks by the steps, delicate and intoxicating. A scent that clings to the folds of your dress as you descend toward the shore.

The ocean scent is dominant—briny, alive. Distant waves grinding the shore, a gull calling once, then gone. You notice the smoke-like trace of candle wax drifting from the old monastery. The night doesn't feel dark, it feels vast.

And the sky—oh, the sky—spins with thoughtforms: spirals, nebulas, velvet corridors of wonder. You see colors that do not exist on Earth. You hear light hum. The stars seem close enough to taste. Time dissolves.