Green Sky, Blue Grass.

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Emma smiled. Her eyes sought a light she could not see, and her brain whirred with a hyper-capacity beyond normality. To the outsider, it would seem as if Emma was in seventh heaven, or some variety of it. To the outsider, they would see a tall, slim girl with a halo of dark hair and large blue eyes slightly glazed over, laughing at some unknown joke.

Emma’s laughter was a shield. Emma was on one side of the shield, and the rest of the world was on the other. In Emma’s version of the world, everything was white and gold and transparent. She saw only the truth as it was told. She believed only what she heard and could tell was true. The other side of the shield was false, like an ultimate reality Emma would never be able to reach.

A group of lanky teenagers wandered past where Emma knelt on the ground, by the flowers. Emma tilted her head, but didn’t look up at them; instead she seemed to focus on the ground. On the green, green grass. A colour she didn’t understand. She heard their idle chatter, felt their normality and envied it. She envied the fact that they had friends and could exchange pleasantries on the colour of the sky – blue or grey or black with impending thunder – or how they had done their hair.

Emma felt their footfalls pass, and looked up, under a fringe of black hair. She seemed to watch the sky. Birds swooped and looped and pirouetted gracefully in arcs and Catherine-wheels; the trees danced and serenaded passers-by with their branches; the wind toyed with people’s hair, lifting it and brushing it across their foreheads – Emma could see none of this.

Emma smiled. Her brain began its vigorous sprinting once again. To the outsider, she would appear to be a graceful, kneeling girl, watching the insects play with the flowers. To the outsider, she would seem happy, or at least, content.

Untrue, it was all untrue. To Emma, the sky might as well be green. The grass might as well be blue. Emma was blind, and her world was white and gold and transparent. To Emma, everything was not as it should be.

~H

Seasonal Perspectives

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It’s funnyhow our perspectives of settings change due to the weather.

My backgarden for instance:

In the summer the lush green grass melts under the invisible rays that fly from the golden ball of flames in the sky. Next to which is the fluffy, distinct and lonesome cloud that hovers all by it’s self, waiting like an obedient dog. The two tree’s stand guard over my kingdom, protecting it like bodyguards. They stretch up into the blue abyss, their emerald green leaves surrounding the prickly twigs that hold up these guardians. A perfect light-brown picket fence skirts around the garden like a boy chasing a ball, the brown blends richly with the solitary shed that hides away millions of treasures. Just in front of this is a bush, which when windy, sways casually in the breeze like a dancer on a stage.

In the autumn,it rains. It creates a depressing aura that attacks you as you wake up and stays with you the entire day, poking at you until you crack. My garden takes the brunt of it, the grass mutates into an ugly swamp of rain water and mud which disgusts even the strongest stomached of people. The sun vanishes behind the murky, grey clouds that taunt every person who looks up at them. My trees have died. There surrounding leaves have discoloured to a communal show of browns, yellows and blacks and have dropped to the swampy floor. The actual tree trunk is naked, defenceless against the wind and rain and lacks the ability of guarding my less impressive ‘kingdom’. The fence sits, unable to avoid theconstant battering by the Gods’ wrath and soaks it all up like a sponge. The shed still hides away in the corner, no one ventures out to it anymore, its treasure, lost, until the bright summer. Finally the bush, droops and regrets growing up, very similar to how I feel during the rain.

>G