0387

[eidolon]

Beyond the horizon, there is elysium.

The infirm and ailing are reborn, to make of themselves that which they desire. There is no wanting, no shortage of abundance for the living, with few worries to burden the mind. The fields are an ever-changing mise en scène perfectly designed and tailored to our needs, without room for flaw – immaculate.

Time flows differently. The moon will abide in the sky for weeks, or the sun when it is meant to be night; the seasons do not tarry long, waltzing and interchanging with each other to a fractal tempo. Fauna and flora begotten, lives, withers, and fades away according to the whims of this simulacrum paradise. Yet, always, I will recall the one unchanging facet, a vivid constant in my mind: those flowers in dramatic crimson bloom, scattered everywhere. I’ve cut them from such fertile soils, plucked, counted, and set them adrift in ocean foam, so that I may never take for granted my own blessings.

I remember the first touch of light upon my neck at sunrise.

I remember the pierce of metal stems, and how I, too, bloomed.

I remember the rush of warmth seeping down my hand, dripping into precious pools.

The beds of leaves, sleeping under the eaves. Each a memento of how fortunate I was, that I came into divine grace.

And every glance to the moon before my eyes sealed its image with me to rest, that thought reincarnated anew:

“The morning probably won’t come to me.”

Dawn breaks on another day.

[eidolon]

The day we graduated from paradise should have been the happiest day of our lives.

They bid us our smiles and gave no time to take in the moment's flash. It blindsided me with a spark of recollect, and within that pure, unsullied blank space of white, the faces we'd set adrift soaked into its canvas. I saw a pink rose, the prettiest I'd ever laid eyes on and will never again. Bleeding cardinals, pale chrysanthemums, gloomy irises... They say the most beautiful of them go first. All of us were reaching for the warmth of the sun. Faded with the shutters of the evening afterglow, our silhouettes merged with the shadows of our room, our next day promised to us and signed not in numbers, but new names.

And I resolved myself to a promise, too:

on the other side, across the sea, I will wait for them to come back to me.

Then, I will carry them, and through my eyes, the world they will see.