The rolling force of winds pushed the frilled leaves of the great woodlands and herbaceous alike. Branches old and branches newly grown buckled and waved with every breath of the clouds. The old barks groaned in retaliation against each exhale, and the thin threads of green that laid upon the earth, sung as wind blew past their slender forms. The earth in which those greens were borne of, let itself be picked up and thrown about. Smaller particles rose and stiffen between oaks and through the open air.
Pushing and pulling still, wind let the dust speckle upon the murky surface that tried to reflect the sky above. Between the gaps of rippling canvas and green discus with floral cores rested the reflection of pinkish hues that came about with the midday ring’s shadow. Below, the lighter shades of light bled to wine, mixing with the shallow darkness of the calm flowing waters.
From the darkness roots laid above, but dared not to touch. Blooming above may be rosy bundles, but below the roots lay dormant. Their thin and waning stocks rolled with the calming layers of liquid that followed along the tranquil current. Nor did dirt come to them, yet their whole did not rot. Decorating the waves did their bodies lay above, yet below seems no chance of life should be possible. They live on still.
No life other than the blooming pads could be found within this crevice within the stream. The crimson highs were accompanied above by foliage of land, but below laid nothing that could be seen through the inky emerald. The stringed beads of light that dared to make its way below, lost its fight to the void.
Yet, as the slow winds of the world carried on, pushing the ceiling above, below stirred a beat.
Slow. Unsure. New.
Trapped within constructs unknown, laid the cooing patter of a newfound spark.
The light did not erupt from the nightness below, but slowly, did light above trickle down. Not the lovely hues of noonish serenity, no, those very lights shared to the life above became shunned to the change below. Instead, the masses upon the crystal surface seemed to grow past their physical self’s possible form.
The blotches below stretched itself up higher to meet the waning light from above. As it did, the newfound light grew brighter, slowly trailing down as it allowed for the shedding chunks off from its slender mass. Stocks that no longer bent with the waves of water, but instead as if their minds formed one, found the core below.
The core in which held the slow rising spark. Still unsure, still unaware of the truths of the world around, their flesh rendered to the shell’s confines.
Still, when the very space around them seemed to hum with a message for only them to hear, they knew.
There were no words for one to hear, no true noise that could be understood, yet unmistakably so it was there. As the waters pushed past, and the light above came closer or as the inkiness around seemed to open up and allow the wet world around to show itself, one could tell what was told.
The one of this’ very beginning called, naming what lied, calling it forward.
