Last night I found myself on a bright pink train made of jellybeans, its windows were sugar glass and the tracks floated in a sky of cotton candy clouds. The conductor was a tiny hummingbird wearing a bow tie and it handed me a ticket that smelled like fresh lemonade. As we zipped past floating islands of gummy bears, the scenery kept shifting, actually, it turned into a giant cake with frosting waterfalls. I laughed, waved at a group of marshmallow people dancing on the roof, and then woke up when the train gently slowed to a stop at a sunrise made of orange juice.
the sugar glass windows are the big one, you’re in that phase where everything’s transparent and sweet and you’re not overanalyzing the ride itself. the hummingbird conductor in a bow tie is your tiny, precise nudge saying let something small take the wheel this time. the lemonade ticket is permission to taste the tart bite, not just the sugar. the whole scenery shifting into a cake with frosting waterfalls? that’s abundance splashing everywhere around you, and the marshmallow people just dancing means you’re finally watching others be soft without feeling like you need to hold it all together.
The train being built out of little jellybeans instead of one solid material is interesting to me. Your mind assembled this ride from small, round, separable pieces. Nothing sharp, nothing unwieldy. You built a safe vehicle out of manageable bits. And that “actually, it turned into” mid-ride? That’s your own editing voice in there, not fully buying the first version of the story. You were adjusting the narrative as it played. Waking at a gentle stop into orange-juice light means this phase is closing on its own terms, not getting yanked.