drabblemania topic: "the broken light of dawn".
Sunrise comes earlier and earlier, and sometimes she's awake to see it, especially if she's on her way to work, and sometimes she isn't.
The mornings are still cooler than the rest of the day, but they're not as bitterly cold as they were.
It's not like home, the sunrise. There are colors, colors that bleed into each other and sometimes they're delicate and sometimes they're bold and it amazes her, when at home, there was only the light, and the black, and the blinding brilliance that you couldn't look at directly.
This world is a strange one. It's not home, and it never will be.
She's given that up, and she doesn't cry as much, anymore, at the strange and eerie way that dawn paints things, the red light spilling like blood, the sky giving birth to the day. The sun has never been a mother, it's always just been there.
This is not home. This never will be home, and those who say that it is better may be right on the surface, but it's still not home, and there's something to be said for home, awful and poor and brutal as it may be.
This is not home. But sometimes, she comes to accept, there can be a sort of beauty to it.
The mornings are still cooler than the rest of the day, but they're not as bitterly cold as they were.
It's not like home, the sunrise. There are colors, colors that bleed into each other and sometimes they're delicate and sometimes they're bold and it amazes her, when at home, there was only the light, and the black, and the blinding brilliance that you couldn't look at directly.
This world is a strange one. It's not home, and it never will be.
She's given that up, and she doesn't cry as much, anymore, at the strange and eerie way that dawn paints things, the red light spilling like blood, the sky giving birth to the day. The sun has never been a mother, it's always just been there.
This is not home. This never will be home, and those who say that it is better may be right on the surface, but it's still not home, and there's something to be said for home, awful and poor and brutal as it may be.
This is not home. But sometimes, she comes to accept, there can be a sort of beauty to it.