Sometimes I see a beautiful picture and I feel inspired to write a little story about it said picture.
The following story I wrote after seeing a beautiful drawing of a woman on her balcony. It needs editing and I will fix it up later.
The lids of her eyes began to slide closed, though it must be said in no great rush, whilst her cheeks were brushed with gentle motions of afternoon autumn air. At that time, despite the sun hanging lower in the sky than it had at midday, it was still potent enough to heat each strand of her tar colored hair which was unfortunate enough to be caught within its brilliant sight. She drew her breaths in a deliberate and careful manner, endeavoring to sustain the inward rush of air for at least a few seconds before ceding control. With each inward rush she was exposed to the faint and fleeting aroma of the old weathered metal railing upon which she had chosen to lay her head, a head which had seemingly grown in weight since she had risen from her bed hours earlier, or perhaps it was simply the act of being upright and mobile which had placed a great strain upon the muscles and bones of her neck, shoulders and back. Having left the door to her balcony open until the point where its hinges could no longer pivot lest they begin to fracture, she could hear the exceedingly distinct sound of the plastic shopping bag she had placed upon the floor which was overflowing with items she had purchased earlier being flicked and jolted by slight gusts of wind creeping through the aforementioned ajar portal. It was her quaint addition to the regular chorus of cars, the drone of the air conditioning units and the rustling of the leaves of the cherry blossom trees surrounding her apartment building which were cultivated for no purpose other than to stir a yearly feeling of anticipation. The spring season brought along with it what could possibly be described as a “rebirth of color”, the naked winter husks of the once verdant flora erupt into what seems like flames of pink, the cinder like shower of petals raining down almost without cessation. It is but a moment of dialogue in a novel of countless words, though it is as impactful as a library of stories. Sitting to the side of the rustling plastic bag and keeping a watchful eye on her movements she was her blackest of black furred feline friend, who alongside its owner, had decided to make the most of the sun that remained in the sky, a natural canvas which was with each passing moment growing ever more golden. The lead up to twilight, its fleeting beauty and the inevitable surrendering to the darkness can be framed in two ways, moving and heart wrenching. The joy of witnessing such an event and the sense of wonderment that it inspires often give way to a sense of loss and sadness, as though one is grieving for the sky itself. It is the knowledge of the inevitable loss of once the light has faded. It perhaps speaks, albeit in soft poetry, to our ephemeral nature and that disquiet which acknowledges that we ourselves are not unlike a sunset, fighting off the darkness but without fail being consumed by it. These thoughts, of course, did not arise in her mind in such a vivid manner, instead they existed at the periphery of her mind like an old man abandoned to the outskirts of the town, though his presence still causes the townsfolk to walk about on edge. Just 5 more minutes, she convinced herself, knowing in earnest that the feelings of warmth and comfort would soon be replaced, however for the moment she was content, a rare commodity indeed.