When our eyes
first open, when
they first meat
reality's scourge, all is
light.
Is a blinding, golden Brilliance,
it's splendor limning
the world. Is a dancing, prism face where
lies can only cling
to Day's tattered hem.
And then we
blink, eyes adjusting to
the staggering glory. The world,
we realize, isn't the faceted
nimbus we once thought it.
It isn't the realm where
light
only allows darkness a short
reign, where all would
eventually mend and
stars forever glow—because really, there
is nothing that will heal. And
the stars…they will all
burn themselves to an end, will
be consumed by the very Brilliance
we once held in awe.
By the
light.
So really, there
is nothing here. Nothing but
ebony forest and gnarled, reaching
branches, their splayed finger
nailing shadows to us
all. Blocking out the
light,
too, but just barely. The
shadows, after all, need it. Need the
light
to forge their shapes. Need
to feed off it, imbibe
the awful splendor.
When the
light
comes, it will burn, burn
burn through us all. We may stand, faces tilted to
gossamer sky, but it will
bring us low. It drag us, pull
us down to depths we cannot
plumb; it'll force us, goad us to
our knees. Looking up, all
we'll see is
light,
that terrible, alluring face of
Day's breaking.
Of it's shattering
into glass doors.
And yet nothing
with a face can be so
dreadful. At least, nothing
that looks you in the
eye, meet you
head-on, face-to-face. Because…well, isn't
it the shadow's job to
hide, to veil and cloak
and shroud? And the
light—
doesn't it always burn, burn
the blackness through? Doesn't it stream through
the branches, granting shadow-nails
their very life?
It does, we realize. It
does bear with the dark,
lets it linger for a
little while. And that's
just it: the
light
only tolerates the void, allows
it life for only the span of
this world's lifetime before the
firebrands. Before it tosses it to the stars.
And we—all of
us and the
light,
us mortal tents and the
Brilliance—will watch the
old world burn out.
