I lay on my back beneath a wind turbine and watch its blades twirl lazily in the soft breeze. It’s sunny today; the backdrop is sky-blue. Could you guess how the color got its name? I thought so. It has a funny sort of depth that feels as though I might plunge into the sky and never return, lost forever to the clutches of daydreams. No clouds dot the monochrome blue; nothing to mar the picture save for a few fingers of sun-bleached grass poking up from the edge of my vision, throwing glittering light into the corners of my eyes like tears of joy. The grass smells of dried straw and old things. It’s long, uncut, as forgotten as the memories it brings to mind. Bugs hum throughout its lattice like a symphony of warm instruments, flitting about as though intrigued by my presence. And, in the center of it all, my mind meanders.

They say good stories have conflict. I can’t help but wonder why, as I sit here in the sun’s caress, slowly running out of things to contemplate. Above me the gleaming arms flick round and round in a slow rhythm, stark, like a bad Photoshop. Like the wheels spinning in my head. What right does anybody have, to say what a story should be? They think they get to make the rules because they make the stories? Well guess what.

A bug lands on my face. I let it stay. It’s a beetle; I can tell from the weight and the way its legs tickle my face. I know these things because I know everything, and because I made all of this up anyway. Wrongly, apparently. They say bad things need to happen for it to be a good story.

Maybe one of the blades falls off and hits me. The blades of the wind turbine, I mean, not the grass. I don’t think grass would hurt nearly enough to qualify. But what do I know?—maybe a blade of grass will fall on me and trick people into thinking this is a good story.

Needless to say, nothing falls on me. The beetle lifts off my cheek and takes to the air on iridescent wings. The grass sways in a sudden gust, rustling like leaves. A triumphant smile tinges my lips.

Screw the critics. There’s beauty in pain but there’s also beauty in beauty.