Willow-Wisps

May 3, 2010
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The fading sun, barely an orange sliver now, fell behind the mountainous horizon. The last few rays of the sun turned the sky into a brilliant rainbow of purple and blue hues.


Standing on a lush green hillside was a young blue eyed man. He stood, deep in thought, staring toward the waning sunlight. A cool breeze passed, and the man’s silvery blond hair whipped across his face. Then he turned away, as if pained by the beauty of the edge of night.
He walked, past hill and valley. Through tall golden grasses reaching toward the stars, past streams where the water whispered against the rocks.
And he came to sit upon the dusty ground, with a tent and crackling fire. The flames danced in the darkness, the sparks floating into the sky like tiny lost souls. And now he stared into the flames, and watched as they burned all they touched. All the while, he sat and thought. Of the pain, the suffering. Ever trying to hide it in the beauty of the Earth, the grace in the world and nature.
And the Willow-Wisps came, faint glows among the trees. The haunting remains s of lost memories long past. They gathered round among the forest, half hidden amid shadows. All the lost, the forgotten; resurrected.
And the young man looked up, and stared into them. The forgotten memories of a thousand generations. And he saw the beauty, and how even the darkness had a splendor.
He stood on the edge of time itself, and all the ends that never were. And It was moving through the dark. Images, feelings, sound. All that ever was, is, or will be; and he was a part of it.





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