The sun was slipping in and out of the clouds in the sky as the sky moved in and out of their lungs as they climbed up the mountain. Her and her friend hadn’t hiked up hills together before, and they were finding the strength and weaknesses within themselves. The poppies beckoned on the hillside, disguising lupine and various wild flowers as a mosaic of color splashed near across the peak. Heat moved its warm fingers across their skin and set it red, blazing with life. From afar, it is hard to pick out the separate flowers, but as they moved closer, they noticed the lupine garnishing the poppies.
Then they were in them. Full force color, bursting from every direction, brighter than anything they had seen in the natural world. It was a scene so obviously beautiful it made them question beauty and what triggers the mind to recognize something as beautiful. “Beauty to me is something that is inevitably going to pass,” she whispered, “it’s as if the moments I cannot capture are the one’s that I process as beautiful.” Her friend smiled as her glacier-blue eyes stared out onto the rolling hills. Together they allowed the scene to run through their bodies filling them with soft-spoken love and adoration and sadness simultaneously.
I’m sure you’ve felt it. The feeling when when you know something beautiful will pass. You want to bottle it up, to capture it, to put it in a container where you can visit it again. That is what makes beautiful things so beautiful. Everything only exists when it does, and then it is gone. The flowers in this photo have since perished. A burst so sudden that the heart nearly jumped at how startling the grandeur is. Just as suddenly they turned to seed and pod and the hills have begun their journey towards gold. She had that feeling too, inside of her. A connection so strong, it seemed foolish not to allow it to happen against all reason. The stranger that grew her into a mountains of poppies the next day vanished in a wildfire. Her own wildfire burning all traces of beauty… “For efficiency’s sake,” she tried to convince herself.
She had fallen suddenly through words on a screen. An almost stranger. Too good not to be true. He ran aroung nature searching for flowers spread far and wide in between. The bush. She held herself high and floated in this new romance, and suddenly she felt need. She felt fear. She felt vulnerability. She felt herself giving herself. She tried to pull away, to gather all of the pieces slipping through her fingers, but they all laughed as the slid. She believed he was falling too, in his own way. Finally she dropped everything in her hands and opened them to him. “Here, come sit, I will hold you till you’re ready.” He jumped in half-heartedly, unsure of how to proceed.
In his voice she found strings of hope, lacing themselves around her heart in a way she hadn’t felt for years. “Is it possible to let someone see all of my inner-workings?” She said to the stars on her mountain, hoping they would reassure her that she wasn’t too much. In her fear she had begun to wrap her hands around him. It wasn’t too tight, but he couldn’t leave when he needed to and his skin was pinched in places. She knew she was holding on. She was trying to bottle the beauty. She woke up the next morning to find him gone. She was confused, but assumed he would come back. She laid out beds of words for him to lay on and play in, but she made the valleys too deep and uncertain and she forgot the swings sets. She wanted to convince him he didn’t need to be scared. She scared him further.
Then one day she realized he wasn’t coming back. Her mind, naturally conclusive, began to build walls. When it wasn’t looking she would pull down a stone to throw some more of her heart over it in case he decided to find it. She watched the wall go up, solemnly. She watched the flowers wilt one by one. She watched another too-good-to-be-true fade into itself. Saying goodbye to someone she knew was hard. Saying goodbye to someone she wanted to was harder. She closed the chapter of her book and gently placed it on her shelf, hoping she would be able to write more of that story soon. The golden hills sung in the distance, a new kind of beauty.
Then she remembered her hands. She looked down at them. They were still open.