Skip to content

The girl who flew

She fell asleep with the icy air nipping at her skin.  That roof, in the middle of rural Wyoming, was a place of majesty in the dead of night.  There was no way you could question the existence of divinity when you looked up at that sky.  The stars created a chaos that she felt calm in.  She was watching the lives of millions of other women flicker right before her eyes. They were beautiful and fiery women.  Tonight she focused on one that had a warm orange hue.  As she greeted her, Mary smiled and grew brighter. Mary was one of the older women the girl observed that night.  Her face, while warm, was aged with life.  Her wrinkles were abundant and deep. Her fingernails were black from her smoking.  The scars she had on her wrists glowed.  The sun leaked through the many holes in her veins. Through her womb where many gorgeous lives began. Her flowing gray hair was no longer perfect.  However, Mary felt radiant. On those solitary nights, you felt close to glory, even if you didn’t deserve to go. The girl felt hope.

When she awoke, she was lying in a grass that was greener than the trees that created her shadows.  She was dressed as though she was a bride without a veil.  Her dress flowed and her dark tanned skin contrasted with the white in a way that made people stare.  However she was never approached.  She was intimidating.  With her hair so wild it turned her into an animal.  She was not what the white, flowing garment implied.  She was not pure, or fresh, or naïve.  Somebody had put her in that dress and she did not know how to escape.

She looked at me.  I was sitting on a bench admiring her beauty.  Her light eyes pierced through my exterior flesh and into my brain.  Her eyes asked, “What am I doing here?”  However I was a mere bystander to her beauty.  I was not the person who created it.  Her eyes then told me, “I don’t belong here.  Serenity is not what I am good at.”  I looked at her, but my eyes did not communicate the way that hers did.

She walked towards the cliff that was behind her.  When she looked down, she saw the dark, angry sea.  At this sight she became content once more.  Psychotic nature is where she belonged. And so with one step she was no longer on the grass.  She radiated life and death and bliss and chaos. She flew.

1 reply »

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Follow my photography skills

There was an error retrieving images from Instagram. An attempt will be remade in a few minutes.

Follow Simmons' View on
%d bloggers like this: