“Will there even be a dawn?” She asks herself.
The warm spell before December sweeps through her nectarine skin as she stands above the village bridge under the canopy of shadows. Bewildered along the streets of letting go, she is ready, but not her hesitant heart. Her sorry thoughts are betraying her calm, haunting her like demons on a rampage. Somebody needs to stop her necessitarian impulses.
This is no longer cute astuteness; it has become a murderous intent directed against her already-dead passions. The end is nearing and nobody seems to get it … except her – her tranquil outcry as the acknowledgment of a fallen first love.
For she was a good girl: keen for the virtuous, kind for those who are not, and honest amid all fakeness. As if eternally ornamenting the Elysian Fields, she was as graceful as a high gypsy; her speech canorous of the nymphs bellowing yet in symphonic tones. As a dancing star she shone the brightest. She was the beautiful fusion of fluency and fruition.
But all of those have instead merely served her reminiscence as she stands in that dark pavement facing the motionless waters devoid of the moon’s reflection. She has become a phantom without a subject but with an outline of tight fists grasping on a wooden railing.
The bridge is her own Rubicon. Accepting what will happen serves as a demure beginning. Her visions of the apocalypse that is her life defined the rapt composure she presents while framing it now to be as nebulous as the farthest star. Life loved her, for sure. But it turned out to be another sentimental post-analysis.
The highly-anticipated white hope called ‘chance’ proved to be the dictum of the lazy – this time, for the forlornly. Thinking about pleasant memories was only as joyous as it can get. A free fowl she was, an amorous little nightingale gracing the staged spotlight of every opportunist –body-obsessed, brain-using, monetary maniacs– controlling her at gunpoint. The ambitions of the universe, of which she only wanted a peek, boomeranged against her fate.
But she never wanted any of those. Gazing the alluring lights cannot fill the hollow imprints engraved in her elastic core. Practicality, at some point, and not just plain avarice, made her do it. So she scattered incense fumes on her angelic wings and burned them altogether. She yielded in surrender, fed every ounce of her liberty to the rove beetle waiting for something to devour.
Remembering how her innocence died before is a poignant déjà vu – the last thought to commemorate in the crucial hour of the here-and-now. Time never, not in any existence, stood still but only reverberated its confluences throughout the personal histories of its fallen sojourners. The misery will soon discontinue by the choice she is now to materialize. She is readying herself to burn in the spectacular resurgence of another ‘again’.
A match to make the explosion. Everything is complete. Her will has become solid.
Silence creeps in.
Then, out of nowhere, a quick ruction snaps the stillness as owls stop hooting and hover away to mark the twilight zone happening.
Could it be the end of it? Could the flames lit up the black background on that saddest of serene nights to spot the tranquility of a burning nothing? Where has the spirit of something long gone? Where has the spirit of anything long gone?
Hardly can anyone foresee the outcome. Only the gloomy clouds lay witness of what is to ensue.
Yet alas! It burns, but an ephemeral ember! She desperately hangs on to the old will-o’-the-wisp as rarely does it show itself in time. Besting all luck, she has been waiting all along for that perfect moment. In the duskiest of darkness the fiery soul appeared before the loneliest of creatures. For only out of it can the spirit once again spring!
As she regains the nimble consciousness of her vitality, flashing before her precious mind are the things she knows now what to do. The memories begin to empower her present. The present charms its ever-longed future!
Sieving through the series of unfortunate events, she finally finds a rudimentary radiance. Her face glows. A tender blush begins to transpire. Her eyes start twinkling again. A newly-found happiness – that is how it seems. The dim bridge is her decision. And a light is born all over its scenery. A birth: of tomorrow, of new love, of an optimistic ‘again’ – the epiphany of a convalescent self!
It is too late to give up.
It is not yet the end.
She closes her eyes. She feels the new breeze coming.
It’s going to be cold.
But as long as sunlit shade still colors the horizon, there is sunrise in silhouette dreams.