If I were a scent I'd be evasive. The kind of scent that can be compared to thinking you hear someone say your name, but when you look around you can't see anyone. You pause in confusion trying to discern whether or not anyone wants or needs your attentions and you begin to question whether you heard anything at all. The kind of scent you think you smell, but is gone so quickly you feel that you only imagined smelling it. It is not an unpleasant smell and you find yourself breathing deep to catch another elusive waft of scent. A sweet smell, but not cloying or heavy. It's light and airy and doesn't catch on the tongue or in the throat.

If I were a flower, I imagine I would be dark. Like a moonlit midnight blue. A kind of opalescence would add a shimmering quality; a luminous contrast to the dusky petals. The stem and leaves would be a deep, velevety, ivy green. The leaves surrounding the bud protectively would be narrow and almost spindly, splayed out like fingers in a rigid claw-like grasp. I would bloom only at night in the light of the moon. Manifold layers packed into a tightly held bud would unfold slowly, curling slightly at the edges. So many petals that the heart would still hold shadowed valleys and hidden cravasses. Few would be able to witness this flower in bloom due to its eccentric qualities and remote locale. The pollen is valued and sought after for its use as an aid in receiving prophetic dreams, visions, and assisting deep meditation.

If I were a tree, I would be barren year-round. No leaves would grace stark branches that scrape against an austere sky. My bark would be rough and abrasive. Deep fissues and crags would line the surface creating an inhospitable landscape. The trunk would be tall and narrow crowned by a twisting managerie of gnarled limbs. Like vines the branches reach for the heavens twisting even around one another. Odd angles abound. Looking through them at the night sky, it appears as though the very stars are caught in the chaotic mass, hanging lightly as shining fruits. The finely knit branches sift through the sky yet hold nothing other than what imagination allows.