![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
STARS, STARS, STARS
Jan. 19th, 2008 05:09 pmFleeing the raucous gathering inside – laughter and defiant plans, newly-forged friendships – and the returned father dozing on the porch outside, waiting for his sons to understand – she steps into the darkness, seeking an elusive peace. Tip toeing across springy grass, breathing deeply the night air still heavy with the drowsy scent of the day’s faded flowers.
She follows an accustomed path, peace reaching tenuously toward her, drawing her through the enveloping dark with silver tendrils of bittersweet promise.
And overhead in the black sky – stars, stars, stars, glittering like diamonds, flames of ice at their heart.
Old sorrows freshly stirred, she must restore her long-established balance. Grief has been an old companion, edges softened and muted, overlaid in seven years with a blanket of new loves and joys. Today, though – today it burns again, prodded to renewed life by the day’s stark confessions.
‘I got my orders in the morning...and I shot them that night.’
There are fresh tears to weep, the burning words somehow, somehow to absorb, a new equilibrium to attain. This is an old pilgrimage. Time to breathe, alone, and learn to live yet again with loss.
This is utterly unlike my usual style. I envisioned this story almost as a dream-scene, so it virtually demanded to be written in this impressionistic way, as though it happened at a misty distance.
She follows an accustomed path, peace reaching tenuously toward her, drawing her through the enveloping dark with silver tendrils of bittersweet promise.
And overhead in the black sky – stars, stars, stars, glittering like diamonds, flames of ice at their heart.
Old sorrows freshly stirred, she must restore her long-established balance. Grief has been an old companion, edges softened and muted, overlaid in seven years with a blanket of new loves and joys. Today, though – today it burns again, prodded to renewed life by the day’s stark confessions.
‘I got my orders in the morning...and I shot them that night.’
There are fresh tears to weep, the burning words somehow, somehow to absorb, a new equilibrium to attain. This is an old pilgrimage. Time to breathe, alone, and learn to live yet again with loss.
This is utterly unlike my usual style. I envisioned this story almost as a dream-scene, so it virtually demanded to be written in this impressionistic way, as though it happened at a misty distance.
