rvangilder
It pours outside. The sky is dark above Maya's head, cloudy, swirling with the rain. It's a powerful storm, she can tell. Powerful. Beautiful. She thinks about going inside, but she like the rumble of thunder and the rain on her head. Because really, what else is there?
It's tough to obey the rules when you're 16 and you know they're wrong. (Of course, they aren't wrong; they're right, t you're a stupid 16-year-old and you think you know everything.) So you don't. You don't obey them. You pick your own path and it usually leads to disaster and then you reach 18 or 20 of 25 and decide those rules are there for a reason.
The icicle hung cold and crystalline from the tree outside my window. It refracted the light of the sun through the window, spreading a rainbow on my hardwood floors and across the couch.
Beautiful.
I stared at it, solid in the cold outside, and remembered that God gifts strength in even the most fragile of figures.
The beginning of something new is always an exhilarating rush of happiness, excitement and, perhaps most potently, fear.
But being afraid is okay. It helps us watch for danger, consider the risks.
Courage is seeing those risks and taking the leap anyway.
And that leap is a beginning.
The autumn is coming to a close, though many wish for weeks more of candy apples, cider, and bonfires.
But as all things do, autumn ends. It gives way to the biting winds of winter when the sky is so blue that it hurts your eyes, or so grey with snow that it feels like dusk all day long.
Beautiful. Perhaps sad.
And inevitable.
The tire treads in the mud are deep -- so deep tat it's a surprise that the truck that left them isn't still stuck in the mud. But it had a powerful engine and had ripped through the field easily, mud flying, windshield wipers going.
Speed. Filth. Elation.
It's enough.
Sacrifice, the world will tell you, is something that everyone must do. It comes in many sizes, but its meaning stays the same. Mostly, its giving something you want for someone that you love. Or don't love. Or maybe don't even know. But its a sign of strength, usually. A sign of selflessness.
Sacrifice is the thing that your mother gives you when she is 22 years old and afraid. It is the thing that your father gives you when he gives up his dream car to buy a minivan. It is the thing you give yourself when you don't buy a pizza because you're saving for a car. It is the thing that the person who loves you gives you because they can't imagine sleeping without you, so they throw away their Star Wars sheets.
My beloved wears red flowers in her hair. Blonde locks flutter, rose petals fall, and she steps with light feet: bare. I give to her bouquets and she smiles and the sun is bright above us.
The radio plays the soft croon of a sixties woman as Dave sits on his front porch. The night is clear and above him, he can see thousands - millions - of tiny bright stars lighting up the sky. It reminds him of his father and the rain. Life is simple. It's enough.
Time is a thief. He's smaller than you'd think: with dark hair and eyes and a sneaking way about the way he moves. He steals many things, though his favorite is youth. He steals the youth of pretty women with painted lips and eyes, the youth of strong men with broad shoulders and straight backs. He steals because there's precious little left in the world to be given away. But that's okay with him:The youth is quite enough to keep him satisfied.
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