I
t was on late afternoons such as this that the time seemed to slow, drifting by in an almost lazy and lulling manner. Still, She feels dulled, today, far too anchored.(The heaviness of the world astounds her still, the island, where she was born, in the cold of the snow, that had been a weightless time, before she knew who she was or even knew the world existed at all.)
(So does Aeneas always feel a weightlessness, when he could take flight at any point? Or is it only the feeling of heaviness that keeps him from doing so?)
Elli thinks of the white raven from her dreams, if that must be the ultimate lightness. Where did it find it? Her mother told her ravens are good finders—but they can also be thieves.
So she goes to the forest, where the trees hold her in place and it makes sense to feel as she feels. Silver blue eyes peer up at the trees as that light tries so hard to strain through but makes it only in bits and pieces. The shadows are quiet today, though she cannot help but hope she finds those twins as she once had. The quietness tells her that she will not finds them today. She tries to listen for the dying, for shivers down her spine, but nothing comes. There is no death today.
There is no death today.
But there is a boy.
She should be getting home—not meeting boys in forests that would be better left alone. She never learns—maybe Elli is her mother’s daughter after all. She follows where not a trail goes, but where she thinks that raven might travel—tree to tree to tree.
She walks until she can no longer, a fallen tree, the image of that same white raven passes over her shoulder and she looks with blue eyes before realizing it wasn't there at all. A boy sits on her other shoulder, he is not a bird, but she images him perched like one regardless.
“Do you ever dream something so often, that you think it must be alive—somewhere. Both inside of you and out?” She asks the stranger she finds in the woods, though she is not quite looking at him when she asks. “I think if this dream didn't keep flying away— I may be able to ask it what it wants,” she says thinking out loud and she turns to him, those blue eyes (crashing like white caps in the sun) meeting his for the first time. She looks sharp, direct, a bit other worldly in the way something flutters behind her gaze (like raven wings—white and bright). “What do you think? How should I go about catching my dream?”
some are ghosts before they are dead.
