Writing

I finger a rich, dark green leaf, dappled with sunlight. Running my fingers over the rough bark of an oak tree, I lift my head towards the sunlight. The sun warms me down to my toes, and I scoop up handfuls of dirt.

Finding hope can be hard sometimes, in this world where people are trodden on with little thought, and certainly no apologies. 

But I still try. 

Every day. 

What is a world without its Sun?

Without.

Warmth to lead seasons into a dance?

Without.

Gravity to pull the tides into longing?

Without.

Light to rend the dark?

The harsh, cruel blue light of the moon shone over my face. I once saw it as beautiful and gentle, but I don’t anymore. My hair had countless pins and hairclips in it, so many that it was almost a half of my hair.

The wind whipped her hood, and I saw a glimpse of her onyx eyes and gently pink lips. She turned towards me, holding her dark black cloak together. Those eyes were so familiar, yet I couldn't place them.

The first thing I saw were orbs of midnight blue, specks of white swirling in their depths like the night sky. Iridescent circles, layered one upon the other, surrounded the eyes.