A vessel, a vase with crinkled lips, waiting impatiently for her Persian buttercups and baby’s breath to bloom. She can hear the wind whistling through the window and cannot help but wonder whether he’s mocking her? What would it feel like to be able to roam about freely or to be able to race the butterflies or to be able to dance with the rain? She can hear the rain beating on the rooftops and thumping on the windowpanes. Sitting on the rusty table by the window of that old dungeon, feels like an eternity. Her only link to outside is the wind. Sometimes the wind brings the sound of temple bells rolling and she remembers to think of the providence, to thank him for this life, even though she’s empty and miserably sitting in a dusty corner. Day passes by longing to chase the sun riding it’s rays. It’s lonely. But it’s loneliest when the sun dissolves into hues of orange and slowly starts fading into the darkness, which seem to rise slowly out of the ground like a monster from an alternate universe. It slowly starts creeping upward, upward to the house tops, up to the trees, up to the summits of mountains unless it consumes everything that comes it’s way and ultimately reaches out to consume the sky. The wind is gone and with it also the stories of the world. She feels cold and misses the warmth of ranunculus and lillies. She tries to warm herself by the fire on the horizon but it soon disappears with the last flickers of the flames. A fluttering chill in her cold chest extends to the damp soles of her feet. She misses the wind and waits for it to wake her up with a knock on her window and tell her stories she cannot experience. Covering herself with the light and warmth of this hope she snuggles into the dust and waits for the first creak of the dawn from behind those mountains she so longs to climb someday. She prepares herself to face another day, exactly like this one and then another and then another till someone finds her, holds her by her hands and takes her out for an adventure.
Last modified: May 18, 2020
