I search for the light amidst the endless cloudy days. I forget the feeling of warmth and wholeness. I long for the absence of tumultuous storms overhead. I long for peace.
I bend my neck and look upwards to the eye of the hurricane, my body curving and caving like the stormed, limp leaves I kneel on. I stretch to the twister of ghastly gray, but the battle is distant.
I am aware that I am hidden and cannot find rest in a companion. I am remote and secluded from whomever.
I do not fear the bone-chilling cold of the flood. No, not the tire of the somber world. Neither the strike of the lightning. However, I do quiver in the thought that I am surrounded by an exotic ambiance of fluorescence and lush life, however, I am just unable to see it.
I sat there on the cold core, and looked up at the starry outside. My hands lay limp next to me, helpless and powerless. I sobbed from deep within myself, throwing my emotions into the stern silent air. I couldn’t help but wonder why the heavens had chosen to keep me living but had also just chosen to kill me. I suddenly realized that I wasn’t alone, this was a daily pain, no an every second pain felt by others around the world. I feared that perhaps as frequently as I breath, pain is felt.
and they asked me,
how beautiful is she?
and I replied,
as beautiful as can be.
Power stands tall and broad, and leaps with agility and strength. He leads with decision and certainty, and speaks strictly, pronouncing each last syllable. Every man knows not to mess with power.
Fragility hobbles weakly to each destination. He quietly ponders life with doubt. Fragility walks silently below the rest, wishing to be invisible. Fragility can’t help but wonder about the day that he might break.
He dare not touch it more than with the tips of his fingers. He dare not blink for more than a simple second. He dare not breathe more than shallow. The way she moves, he said. Each action with such poise and elegance, each curl of her hair sculpted with purpose and desire. He believed that he could spend eternity swimming through the depths and colours of her eyes. He wondered from which crystal and silver lining her soul was made, and thought of the intricacies of her mind, that endlessly intrigued him. And I believed the worst part was, that she knew this.
Mrs March retells me the story about the first time she got behind the wheel and successfully gained a mailbox along the way. My insides ached from deep laughter. She had probably told me this story a million times, but I hoped she would tell it a million more. Mrs March lived on the other side of town of me. I never went outside when visiting her, she told me once that it would be safer to sell myself, whatever that meant. She brought out a beautiful display of cookies, each decorated with strings of icing sugar and beads of sprinkles. She set them down rather roughly and gazed upon me curiously. I held out my hands to Mrs March, but she refused to take them. Instead, she shoves a delicate cookie in my direction. I shrug, “but Mrs March, we have not said grace yet.” She spits harshly and yells something I cannot understand. She throws the cookie plate against the wall and it shatters loudly. I couldn’t understand why she was so angry. I recklessly searched for any possibility. Relieved, I find my answer. “Mrs March, don’t worry. I will pray for more cookies. “