09-20-2019, 04:27 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Monsieur+La+Doulaise' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .lilian_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #a58474; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #38253b; border-radius: 0px 0px 300px 300px; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .lilian_container p { margin: 0; } .lilian_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; border-radius: 0px 0px 300px 300px; } .lilian_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: -40px; background: #e4d9ce; border: solid 1px #38253b; border-top: none; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #38253b; } .lilian_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #000; padding: 30px 50px; } .lilian_name { color: #a58474; font: 70px 'Monsieur La Doulaise', cursive; line-height: 0.8; padding-bottom: 10px; } .lilian_quote { font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; background: #a58474; color: #e4d9ce; padding: 20px; letter-spacing: 1px; border-bottom: solid 1px #38253b; }</style> <center> <div class="lilian_container"> <div class="lilian_text"> <p class="lilian_quote">I never cared for anyone so much. I was born with a bomb inside my gut.</p> <p class="lilian_message">
Maybe someday Sylva will feel like home.
Maybe someday she’ll feel like she’s meant to have a home.
And she won’t feel the pull like a fish hook in her belly.
But she has stolen away in the night, drawn back to the meadow, the forest, the edge of the river where the ice had shifted beneath her feet. Because it’s the only place that’s ever felt like home, even if it’s not really much of a home at all. Because she is no one here and that is all she’s ever known how to be.
She heard once that, when you drown, you hear music. So, when she hears the chimes – so distant that she wonders if she’s really heard them at all – she thinks that maybe she’s drowning. That maybe the ice really had given way beneath her feet and she had not thrown herself back to the shore in time, no dark red stranger came along and shouted her down about what a fool she was, that every moment she has lived between now and then has been some delightful fever dream.
She is drowning in the river and this is part of the dream, too.
She lifts her weary head and peers into the darkness. There is something melancholy in the music, something that tightens a vise around her heart and she allows it to draw her deeper into the darkness. But the volume never changes. It never grows louder or softer, it maintains its steady hum, as if it is coming from her own head.
And then, finally, the chimes fade just as a flicker of light catches her eye. She thinks it a firefly, flitting in the darkness several yards up the trail. She watches it tumble and dance and, as it does, it grows brighter.
It pulls at her belly like a fish hook, too.
There had been music and now there is brilliant light and she feels she has no choice but to follow it. It stays just beyond her reach as she staggers after it. And then it is gone. Just as quickly as it had appeared and she blinks into the darkness.
It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the murky shadows and she does not notice the door until they do. She considers it a long moment. Even here in the dead of this moonless night, it radiates its own pitch darkness.
This must be it, she thinks. She doesn’t want to go, really. But there is no point in staying either. There’s nothing for her beyond the edge of that river, she knows, there never has been. She thinks of the flowers a kind stranger had tucked into the tangles of her mane and allows herself the ghost of a grateful smile as she drags in a shuddering breath and steps across the threshold, resigning herself to this end. </p> <p class="lilian_name">lilian</p> </div> <img class="lilian_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/WtLf5jM5/lilian.png"> </div> </center>
Maybe someday Sylva will feel like home.
Maybe someday she’ll feel like she’s meant to have a home.
And she won’t feel the pull like a fish hook in her belly.
But she has stolen away in the night, drawn back to the meadow, the forest, the edge of the river where the ice had shifted beneath her feet. Because it’s the only place that’s ever felt like home, even if it’s not really much of a home at all. Because she is no one here and that is all she’s ever known how to be.
She heard once that, when you drown, you hear music. So, when she hears the chimes – so distant that she wonders if she’s really heard them at all – she thinks that maybe she’s drowning. That maybe the ice really had given way beneath her feet and she had not thrown herself back to the shore in time, no dark red stranger came along and shouted her down about what a fool she was, that every moment she has lived between now and then has been some delightful fever dream.
She is drowning in the river and this is part of the dream, too.
She lifts her weary head and peers into the darkness. There is something melancholy in the music, something that tightens a vise around her heart and she allows it to draw her deeper into the darkness. But the volume never changes. It never grows louder or softer, it maintains its steady hum, as if it is coming from her own head.
And then, finally, the chimes fade just as a flicker of light catches her eye. She thinks it a firefly, flitting in the darkness several yards up the trail. She watches it tumble and dance and, as it does, it grows brighter.
It pulls at her belly like a fish hook, too.
There had been music and now there is brilliant light and she feels she has no choice but to follow it. It stays just beyond her reach as she staggers after it. And then it is gone. Just as quickly as it had appeared and she blinks into the darkness.
It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the murky shadows and she does not notice the door until they do. She considers it a long moment. Even here in the dead of this moonless night, it radiates its own pitch darkness.
This must be it, she thinks. She doesn’t want to go, really. But there is no point in staying either. There’s nothing for her beyond the edge of that river, she knows, there never has been. She thinks of the flowers a kind stranger had tucked into the tangles of her mane and allows herself the ghost of a grateful smile as she drags in a shuddering breath and steps across the threshold, resigning herself to this end. </p> <p class="lilian_name">lilian</p> </div> <img class="lilian_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/WtLf5jM5/lilian.png"> </div> </center>