Repose and Prose

Landscape

The hillside has been subdued by the mist. Its once-vibrant hues are now faded and dull. The woman in the hill...
A patch of hazy blue sky! The sun struggles valiantly to pierce the mist, to send golden strength to the lonely woman. The mist moves, and the light is gone.

This mist... this fog. It approaches the woman. For the first time, I sense her loneliness, her sorrow. Her imprisonment in the green-draped hillside. The mist comes to rest gently on her alert form. I have seen the mist be ruthless, blotting out everything and anything in its path, leaving the victims to mourn in their isolation. But, with this woman, its touch is light and gentle. Always patient, it slowly (oh, so very slowly, like the breathing of an old old man) settles over her face, like dust upon an ancient artifact. I think it is so gentle with her because it knows what it doing is wrong. It knows the despondency it causes by separating her from the ocean she loves. And so slowly, gently, and with the faintest hint of an apology, it moves to take her.

I steal one last glance before she is taken. She is still searching for her beloved ocean, her sparkling freedom. but through this blanket of grey, she sees nothing and no one. Her lonely sorrow is hidden by the mist, but I feel it seep into my bones. I mourn with her.

She who was once serene has now disappeared, claimed by the mist. And the sun is long gone. The world is heavy, grey, and silent. Sleeping. So I sing the world the one true song I know. A song of daffodils waking with the dawn, clad in gowns of sunshine, the first smile of a new-born baby, and the little beginnings happening all over the world.
And I feel the shiver of awakening.

Oh glorious day! Er.....night.

It is, my cherished readers, RAINING. Beeyooteeful.

I
love
when
it
rains.
So. I had a terrible experience in music today. I had to sing my music final. I won't go into detail.
On the bright side, I went out on my parent's balcony, and what I saw was astoundingly gorgeous.
The sky was covered with a blanket of grey clouds, and the hills were countless different hues of green. I decided to write about the lovely scene. Here's what I wrote. Let's hope it's something. (by the way, it's not exactly verbatim...I may have changed some things)

I felt...a cold breeze. I felt it brush my skin softly and gently, like it was a blanket made of snow. It wrapped around me, encasing me in cool confinement. It was so smooth and soft, it reminded me of lip balm. Cool, soft, gentle, lip balm breezes wrap me in their embrace.

Birds. Three, no, four- black. The outline of the feathers on the tips of their wings stands out from the muted grey of the sky. They fly out of my sight. Gone.

Breeze again. I can feel it almost everywhere. It pushes steadily through my skin to frost my flesh and bone. The cold feels strange inside me. Pushing through me. Always pushing right on through.

Sky. The clouds are...
I see a plane rise in the distance.
The breeze slips around my neck like a scarf, and sends cool shivers down my vertebrae. The chill seeps in, soaks and saturates my muscles, making them tense. I feel warm prickles up and down my arm. My ankle. Little sparks...I am on fire. Cold fire? Clichéd, but true. Cold fire up and down my arms. Icy sparks.

The hillside. A sleeping figure (a woman) is hidden beneath the trees and bushes. She is blanketed in green. There are more hues of green than...
it's impossible. an impossible number of greens.
The woman watches the ocean.
For what? I do not know.
I wish her well.

The clouds are heavy and grey from moisture. I focus on one. Try to comprehend it. I imagine...to be inside it would be like being inside a cold steam room (cool, clear water condenses on your skin. A heavy droplet slides down your arm and falls from your fingertip. it makes a tiny splash as it collides with the tiled floor. you think of your existence.)

I'm quietly frustrated. and cold. This untamed scene gently refuses to be conquered by my limited vocabulary. My body is chilled to the bone. My spirit longs to be part of this wild beauty, but it knows that I am different. It will not accept me, so I turn indoors to sleep, like the woman in the hill.