raxeira [on hold]

r a x e i r a

(n.) line drawn by the sunlight on the floor as it filters through the window

"If you're strong enough to let it in, you're strong enough to let it go."

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She was just one of those people that floated in and out of your life at time to time, stopping here and there to leave a zephyr in the air. ephemerally, of course. everything she did was short and sweet and delicate. she didn't want to leave many scars on the earth. mortals say they want to make a difference, but she knew they made scars instead and called it art. (she was a vegetarian.) like all things, she became part of your present-turned-past, but somehow, always, she, the vespertine thing, would sneak back into your future-turned-present. she never became too saccharine with her little surreptitious returns; my life was full of inconsistencies, a little raft on boiling seas, and her lithe appearances was a strange constant in my life.

how funny is it that humans get attached to the most resplendent but evanescent of things?

her name, I recall, was raxeira. ra-shay-da, she would assertively repeat to us, firm but mellifluously, full of lamprophony. her voice reminded me of a cloud, wispy and intangible, yet it seemed to be full of material. ra-shay-da, she patiently repeated. it seemed like all she did was repeat her name, because she was the cloud, a daily occurrence that no one would record or remember, passing by and drifting off with the winds. everyone forgot. i forgot. we just called her eira instead, and she went with it. i suppose she was used to going with it. it was her ethereal existence, her ability to morph into whoever she liked, whenever, that she let all other attachments slide like sand through fingertips, water through filters. her name, to me, was beautiful, like her existence as a whole. quiet and changing, nebulous and almost chimerical. she was at times quiescent, then rhapsodic, or mostly a over-worldly specter, the wind-goddess, watching over our paper lives detachedly, like she wasn't a part of it. maybe she wasn't. maybe she was a figment of my imagination. it wouldn't surprise me.

her constant was change. to her, the cloud chameleon, change was sempiternal.

her line of sunlight, drawn dustily on the floor, was chained to a fate of drifting. change was nothing but a comfort.