She has wandered out to the meadow now, the green expanse of speckled flowers budding and maybe sometimes blooming in the youth of spring, the occasional drift of warm air through the lingering winter cold is so welcoming to all the little lives, new and old. Mesnyi likes that it is beautiful here, that is why she chose to stay, and looking upon the meadow in spring she has no regrets. Regret is not Mesnyi’s way; it is better to move on, always, to leave it behind and be free of the unfortunate things. “That is the key to my happiness,” she’ll say, but how long can you be on the run? She does not consider herself as “being on the run.” So she says.
There are some clouds streaking the sky, bright and white like angel wings, and the sun is warm on her back and the winds not too strong, but enough to cool her flesh where it grows warm and sometimes give her a little shiver. She likes this in-between weather, but she itches in the grave silence of the natural world and wishes, just a little, that she had someone to talk to. The city can be so overwhelming, as can the quiet.
@Acton Onomatomania
"You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while."
![[Image: 26y3cfu.png]](https://i.imgur.com/26y3cfu.png)
plotter
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