Further Up & Further In

Wish Yourself Away

Susan was a sunset. The dazzling kind, that was a million different colours all at once. The kind that made people stop and stare. Lucy looked up to her, and was always stunned by what she saw: Susan, the Beauty of the family. Susan, the Gentle. The graceful, the charming, the lady. Susan was a sunset. The kind that was rare, and almost too beautiful to be real. The kind you hated to miss. She was the type of sunset that took over the sky, and painted itself anew every second. People couldn't look away.

And  Lucy loved her, really and truly. But sometimes she wished she was a sunset like Susan.

Lucy was a sunset. The kind that was bright and golden and everywhere. The kind that lit up the earth. Susan looked at her, and was always amazed by what she saw: Lucy, the golden child. Lucy, the Valiant. The kind, the encouraging, the wild heart. Lucy was a sunset. The kind that blossomed in the summer, and charmed the world with its light. The kind you could never miss. She was the type of sunset that offered itself to everyone joyfully, and painted them with its beauty. People basked in the glow.

And Susan loved her, rightfully so. But sometimes she wished she was a sunset like Lucy.

Susan was a flower. No, a garden of flowers. Groomed to perfection, balanced, and maintained. The kind of garden that was protected. Lucy stood next to her, and breathed in the scents of perfume and baking. She carried out her duties with grace. Susan was a flower, wonderfully shaped and coloured. She was a bouquet, perfectly arranged. She was a garden, carefully looked after. The kind of garden that won awards, or that people admired through fences. She was the type of garden that grew beautiful, straight, and tall. People sucked in their breath.

And Lucy loved her, with all of her heart. But sometimes she wished she was a flower like Susan.

Lucy was a flower. No, a field of flowers. Bursting with dandelions, daisies, and clovers. The kind of field that was open to everyone. Susan stood next to her and breathed in the scents of rain and oil paints. She chased her beliefs with passion. Lucy was a flower, bravely blooming through pavement cracks. She was a vase of dandelions, lovingly collected. She was a meadow, honest and wild. The kind of field people liked to have picnics in, or where deer grazed. She was the type of field that grew confidently, freely, and earnestly. People found peace.

And Susan loved her, fiercely. But sometimes she wished she was a flower like Lucy.

Aslan loved them both. Their grace, and their passion, and their gentleness, and their bravery. He loved their carefulness and carelessness alike. But sometimes he wished they saw themselves the way he did. Beautiful. Truly beautiful. And so, so loved.