Moonlight Sonata

•2 - Grave•

Grave: An excavation for the interment of a corpse.

•He•

I believe there are two kinds of eyes in this world. There's the regular, lifeless one, and then the other one: the one that many desire. The timeless one, the ageless one. The mesmerizing one.

She had such eyes. But they weren't much use to Her.

She kept asking me about the music that made Her see rainbows, even though I never replied. Maybe a part of me was scared. Or, worse still, wanted to hide it from Her, because this one thing was just so mine.

Sometimes, I'd be out walking in the forest, and I'd look up to see Her standing at the door - Her walnut skin a stark contrast with the whitewashed surroundings. From this distance, you'd never even know She was blind, for She'd look around Herself like She knew every inch of the world.

She did know every inch. But that was her world. Not ours, not mine.

As the night would fall and the wolf would howl, She'd wait for me to come running to Her. And come running I did. But not to hold Her in Her distress like she thought, but because it was time for the crows to emerge.

Crows. I hated crows. Their shrill cries reminded me of rotting bodies under graves. Sometimes, I'd get these visions about the souls of dead people. They emerged out of their graves, calling out to anyone who would listen. And of course, the godforsaken crows always responded to their desperate cries.

Crows - the symbols of darkness. Maybe that's why She loved them. The dark was all She'd ever known.

Sometimes, I would tell Her about bees and honey. How strongly those energetic beasts were drawn to the sweet nectar; and I'd tell Her: don't be a bee. Don't run after that divine honey that drips from those attractive petals. Don't be a bee, buzzing and bumbling around till you've forced somebody off their chair.

Instead, be a drop of  rain, one that moistens the throats of those flowers. Be that rain, the one that causes the very existence of the nectar.

But sometimes, I'd just lead Her down the leaf-strewn path in silence, the music of rainbows playing softly in our ears. She'd ask me what the sky looked like at the moment, and I'd talk of a deep, midnight blue. The first cricket of the evening would crack its wings, and I'd hear Her low cries of fear. Between two small sniffles, She'd ask me what midnight blue looked like.

And as She'd wait patiently for my reply, I'd stay shamefully mute. For no matter how hard I tried, a colour to the blind, I never could describe.

I'd leave Her hand then, and walk a little on. More to the right, beyond a little bend, where the grasses grew scornfully long. And over there I'd stand, looking down at the ground. She'd take two steps my way. Those thuds would be the only sound. I'd look up as She'd tilt Her head, asking me if night was here yet. And I'd tell her gently, as if to a child, about the many shades of this mysterious night.

"Night is here," I'd say, "always." Her brows would draw to a frown. "Night exists, even in light. Night is where we belong."

She'd look up again, that clueless girl, as if She could see what was above. "I'm seeing lots of stars," she'd say, as a blank sky greeted her back.

I'd sigh, and she'd turn away and go, "oh, I want to fly."

And I'd look at the graves in front of us, and think, "man, I want to die."

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