Burning

Night is the mask of fear and despair, cloaking over what is soft and beautiful by day, twisting dreams into nightmares.

A field, soaked in the aftermath of a light shower, sheep safely tucked away indoors, by day exuded with life and colour. But now, in the shadow of night, there hung a heaviness under which even the wind dared not breathe. Darkness had consumed it all, so that the red flowers were now soulless bodies hanging from the poles of the fence, and the dancing trees now shrunk back into silent carcasses.

Yet, under the dim light of the stars, a lone figure could be seen laying in the damp grass. Shivering in her light jacket, the girl stared up at the sky, wiping at her face when the tears were too heavy to escape her ears and mouth.

This girl, so distraught as to flee the warm house just up the hill, found herself trapped in a prison. Locked in her thoughts, locked in the failure that seemed to consume her then. Her hair was sticky, curling up above her head and mingling with the damp earth. The cold didn't bother her now, she was too weak to care. Pain throbbed through her skull and ate at her chest. Her cheeks and eyes swelled into red plums. When had the lamp gone out?

The black cloak became too heavy to lift, but she had no tears left to cry now. Sadness himself paralyzed her there in the grass.

She wondered how long it would take for death to find her.

Was it cold enough to die of hypothermia?

Hours of silence. Above her, she could feel the boundless expanse of space, the universe, sprinkles of light casually flung across the abyss of an endless sky. What once might have made her feel small and insignificant, brought her attention to a single star, shooting across the darkness above her. And it occurred to her:

No shooting star ever flew without fire. If nothing is burning, if nothing is racing through the atmosphere fast enough to tear itself apart, there can be no sparks, no light. No dreams or wishes can come true. Something must be sacrificed, something must fall away. Rock must push through heat to make it through the atmosphere. No use in questioning what caused the propulsion in the first place. All that can be done is to trust the direction in which you were propelled. All that can be done is to surge ahead, follow the course. To relentlessly move forward.

A choice: succumb to fear. Succumb to the 'realistic logic' of probability. Allow failure to be the ultimate outcome. Melt beneath the pressure. Disintegrate. Explode into dust like the temporary show that her journey could be.

Or. Buckle up for the ride. Push through the fire. Let go of the weights slowing her down. Let the toxins be all that melt away. Endure the pressure. Trust the propulsion. Trust the direction. Fall forward.

First an arm. Then a leg. She lifted herself up, the darkness no longer able to hold her down. Because now a light was within her, a force strong enough to displace the night. She stood, and after a final look at the sky, the girl returned to the house.