Sometimes, the sky is a muted shade of blue, falling slowly. Sometimes the sky is a screaming shade of orange, collapsing all around me. Mostly though, the sky remains a quiet humming of spoiled silver, insidiously moving in no direction at all.
When a certain time is to come to you, bringing a basket full of pre-written apologies for the damage it is going to cause, how do you learn to accept it with grace? How many times must this Time train you to maintain a pursed face, and learn to bow in acceptance of turbulence and disaster?
I think you’re always learning, but never fully learn. On days like today, when the orange is bleeding through the steely grey and I watch the sky burn a hole into my chest, I am sitting as quietly as possible.
I’ve had days where I’ve screamed orange right back to the sky, burning myself in the process. I’ve had days with the heavy grey iron blanket wrapped around myself, drenching my skin in massive rain clouds. Sitting quietly is no option when there are no more options left, and when you’re cornered and hurt, spewing orange and grey can seem imminent too.
Twenty Three passed away writhing in her sleep, holding onto orange embers that left the burned flesh on her palms coated in grey soot. Twenty Three left Twenty Four three Coloured Skies, a memory of orange and grey, and branded palms.
Twenty Four could use blue skies, she hardly remembers them. She’s sent a message in a bottle to the Universe, and it’s floating away in the inky black space, greeting stars as it travels. All that’s left to do now is wait, and sit still as the coal in the skies become embers.