I am still on self-forced writing break until after New Years, but I have been getting cranky and itchy lately. Finally, I decided today, that the best way to fix this was to write something. Just something short. I didn't have anything in mind that would work for something short and quick. So I decided to turn to two of my favorite writing inspiration resources.
Music and beautiful images.
I went to my iTunes and opened my recently added playlist and hit shuffle. This song came on.
Then I went to my Inspirational Pictures board on Pintrest, and this image struck me.
And then I wrote. It's probably not very good. It's pretty weird, and obviously very short. But I enjoyed the process of its creation and thought you might enjoy it too.
The glistening of the sunrise on the very tops of the clouds. And the way one’s hair glows when that setting sun is behind it, illuminating the tiny hairs that wish to fly away and reach the sky. That is the way I would describe the color of his skin.
But that is not the only color. There is turquoise, the color of the sea when it is kissed by sunlight, with coral and dolphins below its surface.
And his eyes. I don’t know that there are words to describe them. They are alive, simply. They contain the universe in its impossible entirety. Framed by lashes thick in an unhuman way. And white. White as a dove’s wing.
He is the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.
Some would call him terrifying. Especially if he were to be unexplainably present when you awoke in the middle of the night, as I had.
But I am enchanted.
The moon floats through my open window, riding the summer air into the room. My lacey window coverings float through the room, like tortured shades, searching the firmament for their lost lover. A flash of lightning breaks the black sky outside.
He looks at me unwaveringly. His eyes were fixed upon me the moment I awoke and saw him perched on my footboard. He is only a breath away from me, but he does not move and neither do I. We are suspended in this mutual moment of mysticism and the uncertain.
I should be wondering why he is here. I should be wondering what he is. I should be contemplating the obvious fact that he is not human.
But I cannot look away.
There is the faintest of movement to his lips and then they are forming shape to form words. And for that small period of time that I have to form a thought before he speaks, I am filled with panic. Surely words will break this moment.
But it is only a small moment I have to think this thought, and then words come.
“What if this storm ends?”
And as his words break that silent barrier between the real world and the one where I am possibly dreaming, white flakes begin to fall.