There’s a rainbow. The colors are faint and it doesn't sparkle. Sometimes you’re not sure whether it’s there, of if it’s just a
figment of your imagination. But it is there. Whether you walk past it with
your face hunched over your gadget, or if you’re chasing the bus that just
moved away, it’s there. You can try to reach out your hands to it, try to
stretch out and grasp it, but you will come up empty handed. You choose to
believe in something that you can only see, that you cannot touch, that you
cannot taste, that you cannot smell. But it’s there. I hold on to the faith
that it is there. It might not show itself all the time, it might not appear in
the same place, it may not be the same strength in color, but when I see it, I
know, it is there.
‘Twas a day
of merriment and valour. One where chivalry and grace was in the air. The
palace dined and laughed and danced. They chanted their graces and gave thanks
to the Lord for His generosity. They ate heartily; lavish meals were
continuously served on the grand tables. The men drew their strengths and the
young knights were trying their hands at the wheels. The women, in their fine
dresses and tresses exchanged excitements and sorrows as they brought out the
meals. Warm embraces, kisses in the air, twinkling eyes, and the welcoming
stare. They all gathered and worked and laughed.
‘Twon’t be a
tale worth sharing if no tragedy had occurred. And sure enough here in the
lands of The Dry Shredded Meat, Sir-Rant-A-Lot finds a devastation that hits
close to home.
Sir-Rant-A-Lot
has spoken of a certain feline he has taken a dis-fancy unto. Yet he too has
learned that time and blood lines can embellish such feelings. The feline,
though incapable of wisdom and wit, borne over by shallow thoughts and murkish
humor, has found a fondness from Sir-Rant-A-Lot. And to this Sir-Rant-A-Lot
must declare she is a grand surpasser of Tweedle-Dee. And tonight, this hot and
dry, night that started with merriment and glee, ends with hidden tears when
the two tales collide.
‘Tis custom
of The Dry’s that they give out potions to the wizards who come to lend voices
to the ceremony’s chants. The potions need be embellished and fragranted to
please the warlords; as is the custom. The maidens were ordered to prepare such
potions and embellish them with a fine silken hue of the Flamingos. There, who
would have known it shall bring such grief to one small soul.
Sir-Rant-A-Lot
must admit that time may heal a wound, but a wound of the heart is not as easily
sealed. No one knows if the scars mean that the pain is forgotten, or it has
merely been buried so the body may continue its adventures..and so this silken
hue was placed, flaunted, glaring into the maiden’s eyes and as Sir-Rant-A-Lot
would admit, would feel like a dagger straight to the heart. This valiant
maiden hid her wounds and pain and smothered her pain with banter and candid
jostles, but Sir-Rant-A-Lot knows that the pain of the past never really goes
away. One can only pray that nothing brings back to those memories of pain. But
for this poor, unfortunate maiden, the dagger strikes deep and she is left in
the middle of the palace merriment to bleed silently; each minute feeling like
fingernails being pulled out from her fingers one at a time.
When she is
finally alone, she does the only thing a maiden may do to regain her strength.
She sheds her tears. She lets them flow and locks herself away and prays for
time to pass so the pain will lessen. Pray that with time it will not be
painful to be reminded of a joyful past. One that did not include her. Pray
that what time she has had has built a strong wall to keep the monsters out.
Pray that someday her smiles won’t be weighed down by distant thoughts.
Pray.
