Swear not by the moon, the unconstant moon
The moon is full. There's something about it, the way it hangs swollen and silver in the air, looking both impossibly distant and close enough to touch, and even though Dairine knows intimately what it's really made of, how big it is, she's reminded of the story she read once in a children's folktale book about the princess who wanted the moon, and how, when the peasant boy asked her how big it was, she'd said, "Why, the size of my thumbnail, can't you see?" And he'd made her a silver pendant of the moon, and she'd married him. Even at the time Dairine had thought the story utterly ridiculous, but charming too, in its way--and that's how she feels right now, staring up at the familiar moon like the gravestone of a loved one, or a long-lost friend you know you can't ever touch again.
It's sad, but it's comforting, at the same time. Knowing it's still there, still the same as it's been for ages. Knowing that somewhere up on that ball of dust and stone, there's still a place where her name is carved into the rock, somewhere not too far from a footprint and a flag.
The beach is quiet, and so are Dairine and Spot, sitting silent and still on the sand, looking up at the sky. Dairine has her iPod tucked in the pocket of her cutoffs, the headphones in her ears, mournfully playing Ben Folds' The Luckiest, as she draws absent patterns in the sand.
[...so this is totally not what or when I meant to post tonight, but surprises happen. Open to anyone, new or old, and as it's nearly 1 am even for me, late tags welcome. ♥]
It's sad, but it's comforting, at the same time. Knowing it's still there, still the same as it's been for ages. Knowing that somewhere up on that ball of dust and stone, there's still a place where her name is carved into the rock, somewhere not too far from a footprint and a flag.
The beach is quiet, and so are Dairine and Spot, sitting silent and still on the sand, looking up at the sky. Dairine has her iPod tucked in the pocket of her cutoffs, the headphones in her ears, mournfully playing Ben Folds' The Luckiest, as she draws absent patterns in the sand.
[...so this is totally not what or when I meant to post tonight, but surprises happen. Open to anyone, new or old, and as it's nearly 1 am even for me, late tags welcome. ♥]