I broke my writing dry spell. This is the beginning of something I'm working. Please tell me if you like it or if it's shit.
There wasn't a way to understand her. She just was, a thing possessed by light, a thing possessed by knowing the dark. She was joy, she was lightning. So delicate but so powerfully destructive. Her energy enraptured while killing. Her human body contained ecstacy and joy and humor and evil and dark, all together under skin and muscles and blood and organs. All which decay.
The decay was inevitable, like that of us all. It came on swiftly and then was done. There was no more. Did it ever exist? Did she ever exist? Had it ever happened? Is there any way to understand what was once electric and powerful that turned to vapor? Did any of us know what any of it meant?
I met her when she was young, just a tiny flaming spark of something. She scared me. I didn't know what to make of her smile, her intense way of laughing, her cockeyed way of making sense of the world. She made me uncomfortable. It wasn't that she didn't see the darkness, but contrarily that she had only known darkness, yet she was light, she was the opposite of what she knew. She had seen the dark, dirty, disturbing, hate, pain, sadness, yet she came away with a jolt of light. She was light. It emanated from her fingertips.
She loved someone I loved, so I had to share with her. I did not like sharing. I wanted to make her leave, to make her never have existed so that our shared loved person did not miss this thing, because she never had it. But that was impossible, to erase once touched with light, with the madness of having had known the spark. She burned everything she touched, turned it to dust and hot heavy flame. Once we met her we were changed. We never knew what our lives were, a sort of continual communal amnesia. It was all gone the instant her fire touched us.
My hatred of her turned to something more like ambivalence. I did not want to know her, because I could tell that there was something dangerous and special about her, something dangerous and wonderful and terrifying just the same. I did not want to know about her life, about how she had entwined herself with the person I loved, how I had just now lost the person I loved to her fire. She had won, and taken this person from me but just at that moment I decided that letting go was the only thing I could do. I could not win against the fire, the person who held this flame and was dangerous. I decided to love her, to let her flame touch me like it had touched the person I loved. It was the only way.
She was touched, I think, by this ailment that was made by the gods. Her way of seeing, her way of seeing what did not exist but by naming it made it so, was her religion. She worshipped this thing she could not touch, could name but only by naming make so. These things were not real to anyone else. She called them into being, cared for them, and by caring made us care for them too. We knew they were not real but her flame carried them onto us, and made us care for these things we thought were false. Things we did not love but that she did love, which sometimes made us love them as well. Loving her and loving these things made us mad, too.
But then these things became real. They became real because she made them real. The responsibility for making them real was vast, heavy, and made her weep. She kept them safe, knowing that it was her fault for having made them, for having created such enormous balloons filled with light and sometimes with sad, angry dark. She knew that only she had called them into being, and because of this she kept them safe. She could tell them apart, knew where they belonged. After a while she could no longer remember why she had created them, or even if she had created them. For all she knew they had always existed, and were always real. They were no longer her creations, because to her they had always been. She absolved herself of responsibility for them, and set them free. They were hers but she didn't know any longer they were hers.