Hopeless Skies
The first thing Sophie thinks, on returning to the place where she had once died, is how mundane it now seems. She is almost sure that when she was younger (around the time when it had all taken place) it had seemed less so. Her memories of it are full of terrible security and violent escape. Sighing, she supposes that in any case, it now matters very little.
Her feet graze the dust, which has most likely not been disturbed for ten years and it sudden occurs to her that she is violating some sort of sacred ground. The place where a part of her died and she had been reborn along with a new self.
A self which she now finds unbearably, acidly inferior.
How mundane it all seems.
She runs her fingers down the now rotting, pathetic piece of rope which is somehow still managing to cling rather tenuously to the tree, to its last scrap of dignity. The tree is as large as she remembers but it has now been stripped completely of the warmth it used to hold for her as a child. It is old - too old and is dying a death that no one knows or cares about. Sophie feels no sadness. It belongs to a time which died along with her, all those years ago. Now it too has surrendered itself unto the sky.
The tree stands in the middle of a huge field. Strangely, if you were to stand anywhere else in this field, you would feel completely, utterly, horrendously exposed.
To the fearful vastness of the overbearing sky, so huge that you could be lost to it.
To the hateful sun, culmination of the fearful vastness. A concentrated embodiment of nothingness.
To the wild elements, of which man has no control.
To everything, of which man has no control.
However under that tree, the tree under which Sophie once lost her life, the tree standing in the centre of this abhorrent field, the tree with a neat patch-of-dust border, there was once to be found a certain sense of shelter. A ‘somethingness.’ Once serene, once blissful - now terrible.
Her feet graze the dust, which has most likely not been disturbed for ten years and it sudden occurs to her that she is violating some sort of sacred ground. The place where a part of her died and she had been reborn along with a new self.
A self which she now finds unbearably, acidly inferior.
How mundane it all seems.
She runs her fingers down the now rotting, pathetic piece of rope which is somehow still managing to cling rather tenuously to the tree, to its last scrap of dignity. The tree is as large as she remembers but it has now been stripped completely of the warmth it used to hold for her as a child. It is old - too old and is dying a death that no one knows or cares about. Sophie feels no sadness. It belongs to a time which died along with her, all those years ago. Now it too has surrendered itself unto the sky.
The tree stands in the middle of a huge field. Strangely, if you were to stand anywhere else in this field, you would feel completely, utterly, horrendously exposed.
To the fearful vastness of the overbearing sky, so huge that you could be lost to it.
To the hateful sun, culmination of the fearful vastness. A concentrated embodiment of nothingness.
To the wild elements, of which man has no control.
To everything, of which man has no control.
However under that tree, the tree under which Sophie once lost her life, the tree standing in the centre of this abhorrent field, the tree with a neat patch-of-dust border, there was once to be found a certain sense of shelter. A ‘somethingness.’ Once serene, once blissful - now terrible.