Light
*Author's note: This isn't really a story. I'm not quite sure what it is? Babbling, apparently.*
Light is a
constancy of existence.
Beacons, caveats, illumination— each with a function —each with intention. Light provides solace in the dark, while at the same time casting shadows where none existed before it. Until a new destination is recognized, it's hard to tell if the light one saw blinking was a draw to comfort, or a warning to stay away. And yet, like the winged creatures our hearts are, we're drawn to seek it out, to follow ... to touch the flame to wick regardless of the twisting creatures that will dance on the walls.
It reminds me of him – the paradox. The agony inside the love and the joy inside the pain; of love borne in light and nurtured in a supernova of turmoil.
Light welcomes every new day.
The small blue or red shine on an appliance both despised and worshipped. It draws from sleep, pulling walking cadavers away from comfort, forcing them to movement. Then brighter, whiter, illuminates carpeted footfalls; it directs the path from shelter to community. When warmth is breached for cold, an orb of stellar luminance reflects on white snow, a vision so pure it's breathtaking.
It reminds me of him – the magnificence. A creation too perfect to exist on the same plane of existence, seemingly out of reach, but offering the benefits of its touch regardless.
Light is ever-present throughout the day.
Overhead lighting stagnates the drive of the soul. With its incessant hum and its maddening flicker it mocks the realities of true daylight, offering brilliance without verve. Monitors stream their own parody of sunlight, burning retinas and reddening white. In chairs, against counters, standing at machines, humanity forges on. Toiling with heavy eyelids and bending spines, trying to reap the meagre earnings that will nourish, clothe and pay the bills for each version of family.
It reminds me of him – the sacrifice. The struggle under the desert sun, the battle never really won; brutally exhaustive, yet never abandoned for the easier route.
Light brightens the path home.
As brilliance fades in the dying sky, clouds are set afire and fields ablaze. When pink and purple give way to black, the streetlights lift their sleeping heads. They wink to life, turning bright gazes on roadways and sidewalks. Headlights muscle their way forward, blinking at each other as they pass. From block to block and town to town, a chain of luminosity guides the commuter.
It reminds me of him – the connection. The burning force that calls us together, that links our souls over distances.
Light exists, no matter how long the night.
When the clouds roll over and stifle the heavens, when the seals are closed and the drapery tight, the vow of light remains. It is unchanging: the promise of renewal, the petition that at the end of every tunnel, there at the dawn, the light has been waiting all along and will shine again.
He is my life; he is my light – I see it burning in his eyes.
Beacons, caveats, illumination— each with a function —each with intention. Light provides solace in the dark, while at the same time casting shadows where none existed before it. Until a new destination is recognized, it's hard to tell if the light one saw blinking was a draw to comfort, or a warning to stay away. And yet, like the winged creatures our hearts are, we're drawn to seek it out, to follow ... to touch the flame to wick regardless of the twisting creatures that will dance on the walls.
It reminds me of him – the paradox. The agony inside the love and the joy inside the pain; of love borne in light and nurtured in a supernova of turmoil.
Light welcomes every new day.
The small blue or red shine on an appliance both despised and worshipped. It draws from sleep, pulling walking cadavers away from comfort, forcing them to movement. Then brighter, whiter, illuminates carpeted footfalls; it directs the path from shelter to community. When warmth is breached for cold, an orb of stellar luminance reflects on white snow, a vision so pure it's breathtaking.
It reminds me of him – the magnificence. A creation too perfect to exist on the same plane of existence, seemingly out of reach, but offering the benefits of its touch regardless.
Light is ever-present throughout the day.
Overhead lighting stagnates the drive of the soul. With its incessant hum and its maddening flicker it mocks the realities of true daylight, offering brilliance without verve. Monitors stream their own parody of sunlight, burning retinas and reddening white. In chairs, against counters, standing at machines, humanity forges on. Toiling with heavy eyelids and bending spines, trying to reap the meagre earnings that will nourish, clothe and pay the bills for each version of family.
It reminds me of him – the sacrifice. The struggle under the desert sun, the battle never really won; brutally exhaustive, yet never abandoned for the easier route.
Light brightens the path home.
As brilliance fades in the dying sky, clouds are set afire and fields ablaze. When pink and purple give way to black, the streetlights lift their sleeping heads. They wink to life, turning bright gazes on roadways and sidewalks. Headlights muscle their way forward, blinking at each other as they pass. From block to block and town to town, a chain of luminosity guides the commuter.
It reminds me of him – the connection. The burning force that calls us together, that links our souls over distances.
Light exists, no matter how long the night.
When the clouds roll over and stifle the heavens, when the seals are closed and the drapery tight, the vow of light remains. It is unchanging: the promise of renewal, the petition that at the end of every tunnel, there at the dawn, the light has been waiting all along and will shine again.
He is my life; he is my light – I see it burning in his eyes.
The End
Copyright © 2011 AF Henley
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