In the beginning, there was
darkness, shadows seeping through galaxies that held her tight. The woman in question danced in her lonely, knowing nothing of white noise. She who floated in the infinite night sky, who did not question the empty spaces of the universe, reveled in her composure. There was nothing there, nothing to bear, nothing to scare and nothing to care about her falling stars and galactic explosions. Back then, it was easy to call herself a heavenly body when no one was looking. Minus 455 degrees and multiple burns, clenched fists, she believed her quiet kept her gravity when, all alone, she drifted farther and farther, when, on her own, she only deafened the banging while her ears bled. No one expects the sun to rise in outer space, where the deposition of light depends on your distance between you and your star and so, in a fickle-minded twist, her curled up figure was surprised by the heat on her cheeks, the brightness of the hour. She who wandered, long enough apparently, who did not believe in mornings, learned. The woman in question sat down in the pit of all her bruises, scars she never saw until put under sunlight. There used to be nothing there, no pain to bare, no tears to repair and no one to care about whether or not she held her breath in outer space. The new day argued otherwise. Embracing the warmth, stretching her legs and the patience for her progress, she found that the glare tested her eyes, but it loved her. The sun got too close, but it loved her. And love, after twenty-three years was alien but it was something she could start with. On that second day, there was light, change seeping through the black holes she lived with, and, slowly, delight filled them. |