peaceful, the world lays me down
Jan. 1st, 2014 07:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
intheheartTitle: peaceful, the world lays me down
Rating: G
Summary: Some days she does nothing.
Warnings: depiction of depression, including insomnia.
Notes: Don't mind me, just playing around with words. Title from a song that has nothing whatsoever to do with this piece. I just liked it so I stole it. As you do.
Some days she does nothing because it's too hard to do anything; those days are wasted, slow creeping hours stealing her breath.
Some days she does nothing because she's too tired to do anything; those days are lost, drifting apart like shredded clouds.
Some days she does nothing because the day itself demands it; those days are sacred, half-cut grass tickling her elbows.
She opens her eyes and it's a good day, sunlight creeping in the windows like a shy cat wanting a pat.
She takes a textbook out to the quad and leaves it open on the grass beside her, watches the pages flutter in the wind; the sky is a more diligent pupil than she is.
She heard once, somewhere, that the sun is a gigantic battery, and while she knows that's wrong, she's never been able to shake the idea that she's plugging herself in, charging herself back up.
Light shifts over her skin, patterns her body with the shadows of the leaves, and she closes her eyes, feels her eyelashes come to rest.
Light turns the inside of her eyelids red and she opens her eyes, finds that the sun is westering now, but not sinking, not yet.
Light fades so gradually she hardly notices until the sky is purple-grey with twilight, the west horizon an explosion of color slipping step by step away.
Some nights she lies awake and stares at the ceiling, wondering if she'll ever sleep, if she'll wake up again if she does; those nights are hollow, the clock ticking over one slow number at a time.
Some nights she dreams horrible dreams, not quite nightmares since nightmares aren't real; those nights are exhausting, draining every last bit of her energy and hope.
Some nights she dreams of her feet flying upward as the swing falls back, of her skirt a cascade of ruffles, of her father's arms warm like sunlight; those nights are solace, walking her backwards step by step, down the long road home.
Rating: G
Summary: Some days she does nothing.
Warnings: depiction of depression, including insomnia.
Notes: Don't mind me, just playing around with words. Title from a song that has nothing whatsoever to do with this piece. I just liked it so I stole it. As you do.
Some days she does nothing because it's too hard to do anything; those days are wasted, slow creeping hours stealing her breath.
Some days she does nothing because she's too tired to do anything; those days are lost, drifting apart like shredded clouds.
Some days she does nothing because the day itself demands it; those days are sacred, half-cut grass tickling her elbows.
She opens her eyes and it's a good day, sunlight creeping in the windows like a shy cat wanting a pat.
She takes a textbook out to the quad and leaves it open on the grass beside her, watches the pages flutter in the wind; the sky is a more diligent pupil than she is.
She heard once, somewhere, that the sun is a gigantic battery, and while she knows that's wrong, she's never been able to shake the idea that she's plugging herself in, charging herself back up.
Light shifts over her skin, patterns her body with the shadows of the leaves, and she closes her eyes, feels her eyelashes come to rest.
Light turns the inside of her eyelids red and she opens her eyes, finds that the sun is westering now, but not sinking, not yet.
Light fades so gradually she hardly notices until the sky is purple-grey with twilight, the west horizon an explosion of color slipping step by step away.
Some nights she lies awake and stares at the ceiling, wondering if she'll ever sleep, if she'll wake up again if she does; those nights are hollow, the clock ticking over one slow number at a time.
Some nights she dreams horrible dreams, not quite nightmares since nightmares aren't real; those nights are exhausting, draining every last bit of her energy and hope.
Some nights she dreams of her feet flying upward as the swing falls back, of her skirt a cascade of ruffles, of her father's arms warm like sunlight; those nights are solace, walking her backwards step by step, down the long road home.
