09-27-2018, 09:33 PM
Sometimes their thoughts become so entangled that she can’t tell who begins and ends where.
For months now, she could tell that things had been wrong. What had started as a feeling, a presence, it grew - and it grew, and it grew, and it grew. When she closed her eyes the images played out like motion pictures on the backs of her eyelids. When she dreamed, she dreamed of them. She saw gold and silver in every reflection of every surface. The memories were a parasite; they consumed her.
It wasn’t a feeling, or a presence anymore.
It was an intruder.
Today, Glassheart is lingering at the meadows border, embraced by a small clearing that shields her from omens like rivers, and hazels, and shorelines. She can’t decide what it is that she wants - if she should return to the meadow and embrace the memories, or stay here where it’s quiet. To embrace them might mean saying goodbye to everything else. And to turn them away? To turn away from them might mean to do nothing important in life.
It’s easy to forget yourself in the face of something that pretends to be better.
“I’m Sunday, who are you?”
A stranger asks from her peripheral.
(I have no name.)
(I am Glassheart.)
(I have no name.)
The thoughts in her head are discordant and fractured. She blinks twice in an effort to stifle them, and when that fails she turns to greet the stranger in the clearing.
“I have no name,” she says, because this time she has lost.
@Sunday
For months now, she could tell that things had been wrong. What had started as a feeling, a presence, it grew - and it grew, and it grew, and it grew. When she closed her eyes the images played out like motion pictures on the backs of her eyelids. When she dreamed, she dreamed of them. She saw gold and silver in every reflection of every surface. The memories were a parasite; they consumed her.
It wasn’t a feeling, or a presence anymore.
It was an intruder.
Today, Glassheart is lingering at the meadows border, embraced by a small clearing that shields her from omens like rivers, and hazels, and shorelines. She can’t decide what it is that she wants - if she should return to the meadow and embrace the memories, or stay here where it’s quiet. To embrace them might mean saying goodbye to everything else. And to turn them away? To turn away from them might mean to do nothing important in life.
It’s easy to forget yourself in the face of something that pretends to be better.
“I’m Sunday, who are you?”
A stranger asks from her peripheral.
(I have no name.)
(I am Glassheart.)
(I have no name.)
The thoughts in her head are discordant and fractured. She blinks twice in an effort to stifle them, and when that fails she turns to greet the stranger in the clearing.
“I have no name,” she says, because this time she has lost.
@Sunday