A simple, smooth stroke of charcoal holds immeasurable value; a mere dot of color on a work of art. Every tree, every branch, every leaf, breathed to life. Every stroke of color coaxes out a new diegesis;-- a lifetime of wrapping vines and twisting roots, flowers that bloom and fade again with the passing seasons. The girl sits by the quiet of the lake, basking in it all. She takes care to translate every curve of the water, every line of the trees, every edge of the grass, her charcoal lines sharp like a blade; every swish of her hand, precise and purposeful. The light of the sun slips through the gaps in the trees, illuminating dust motes that float freely in the air, flying.
The feeling of warmth and comfort runs through the girl like hot water. She takes comfort in the knowing that this place stays stagnant, rooted to the ground; solid & immovable. The seasons will pass, the jarring greens faded into muted orange, then a dull brown, and then… gone. But she knows that it will come back, as it always does every season. So she waits by the lake, solid and unmovable, molded to her surroundings. Two months, and it is back again, unchanged, and somehow, entirely different. Leaves flourish and fold and shrivel, then disappear entirely. An unremitting cycle; almost human, almost alive. But it is, she realizes, it is alive, as it always has been– as it always will be. The days always seem to bleed into nights; Light to dark, then light again.
Come to pass by, two more hours, three, eight; and the moon will slide over the glassy horizon, light shining and pirouetting off of every wet surface. The girl sits for what seems a century, recalling a message on paper that repeats itself; translating a message that the world will never finish telling. Not yet, she thinks, not yet, she pleads. Let her stay right here, just a moment longer– away from it all.
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I ALSO WROTE POETRY BASED OFF OF THIS:39Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaKgpM1l6Kf
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The clouds are angry,
In waiting, awaiting,
For the girl, isolating,
Shakily breathes in the night,
frail and dowd
For the nature has vowed,
That it will not crowd,
Will not cluster,
Will not leave her ragged and torn,
As she once laid with scorn,
Dreaming of the days without thorn,
When life was fickle,
With no prickle,
Where now the sky falls with a trickle;
For all that trickles
All that grows,
All that knows,
Is all that is fickle39Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFRxcLwLtVA
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