AN ICY WIND blows through the grey peaks.
Eons of snow are ruffled like mountainous waves of white. Icicles hang from barren trees, tinkling like shattered glass when the wind snaps the twisted branches. Stark slender pines rise, like a dark skeleton spine, on the frozen slopes. No light reaches this remote part of the world for clouds seem to eternal gather above like an unrelenting mist. Even the winds cannot breech their thickness.
Despite the wind and breaking ice, there is an eerie stillness. It saturates the air in a never-ending breathless moment. Slinking over the frozen and fluffy ground, the silence leaves footprints in the snow and against the trees. Always it seems to be pushing onto everything it can touch. It blankets everything like a second snowfall, quietly waiting under the stillness.
Within the stillness there is a woman sleeping. She is not beautiful but she is not ugly; she merely lies, untouched by time, in the frigid embrace of an endless winter. Curled up like a forgotten flower petal, she rests upon a bed of snow and a pillow of ice. Her slender form lies exposed to the winds, but they cannot stir her.
The woman is waiting, and as she waits, she dreams.
Short fragments of pleasant scenes like jewels gleaming in sunlight. They sparkle for an instant, bright and dazzling, before becoming nothing but cold stone once more.
In them she sees a woodland king come to her, a wild king of the underworld, overgrown with weeds; there are thorns in his hands and a golden smile on his lips. He carries a thousand un-hatched eggs like precious fruit with which to feed her. they will be her reborn, her creative soul overflowing with new life.
So she wonders if she is waiting for a king to find her who will be her soul-match, and how he will be a true lover to match her step to step. It is romance she waits for, the fairy tale husband she will devote all her heart to. Because that is how all the fairy tales end, isn’t it?
But she also sees a different sort of king, ones who face she cannot see. He is no ruler and he is no husband, not in the strict sense of it. He is not her fairy tale ending. But he smells like sunshine and wet grass. Moonbeams dance along his body, gleaming off his limbs like streaks of steel. It seems to throb in her blood, as if a thousand rivers are singing in harmony.
And so she wonders if she is waiting for a moonlit lover to join her who will make her soul sing, and how he will be the reunion with the deep earth to sing her dreams into being. It is romance she waits for, a dazzling earthy partner whose very touch will make her happy. Because that is what lovers are meant to do, aren’t they?
A husband to devote one’s self to is ideal; a lover to cultivate one’s creative soul is ideal. She should be content. After all, she is only sleeping, and perhaps, in the end, there will be no one coming for her; perhaps she will simply awaken anew and all these images she sees as shards of color are only fragrant symbols.
They speak of what she needs and she will find her king-lover because he is already a part of her because he is already inside her. At least that’s what she tries to tell herself.
Though one tiny image slips into her mind…
It is time for a new beginning. She lies sleeping until she has become someone new.
Word Count: 614
Written: 5 Sept 2011 / slightly Revised: 18 May 2014
Inspired: reflections, reading, and confused contemplation