Alice Montgomery, 1st June 2006
Night-time throws everything into a different relief. With the water a piece of pale silver silk covering obsidian depths, rippling gently, lapping lovingly at the stones, the old willows weeping softly, hunched over the bank, I feel at peace. I understand the ancient ladies' desire to escape, and as I watch, the most old, gnarled willow trails a finger on the soft surface of the river, puncturing the silk carefully and letting her arms extend until it could no more. She keened silently; many of her children had ventured merrily down this river, never to return, to take root further downstream. All of the ancient princesses had lost their babies, but none could follow. Loss had crippled them – instead of standing tall and proud with locks draped elegantly around their tall frames, they leaned away from their roots, downstream, towards their loved ones. I quickly snapped this awe-inspiring picture for my photography course, keeping it for my final piece. Instead of lank strands of leaves and twigs hanging off of the royals, I saw through in the playback a perfect picture of my mind's eye, the elegant curls and twists of noble locks softened by the pale moonlight. This small river I had only found by a stroke of luck; whilst running I happened to glance down a different route to my own. I found this dream world, this extension of my wonderland. This sanctuary has the aura of my best friend. The darkness is all around me here, enveloping me into its black embrace.
I do not have my torch on me but the moon and stars provide enough light to see. Sometimes I detest the human limitations of our eyes, lacking in strength, forcing me to resort to man-made object that deplete the concentration of the obscure curtain veiling the world.
Moonlight dims the brightness of my ginger hair, making me appear less abnormal. My eyes darken into hunter green, enhancing the feline shape of my eyes and the prowl I move with. The darkness of my iris' clashes violently with the pure white membrane-like layer of satin covering my body. My skin was always pale but with the silver hue given by the moon, it was unnatural.
I gazed up at the sky, marvelling at the colour. It was the same deep blue, almost black shade as my room. The tepee had been taken down, carefully folded and stored under my bed. I feel no need for a cover, a thin fabric film between the darkness and I. The darkness sings me to sleep. The darkness makes my dreams wonderful, entwining itself in each and every one. The darkness has wound itself into my soul, inhabiting me. I dress in black. I act as the living personification of the darkness. Mum and Dad have "given up" on me, they say. I don't go out. I don't have friends. Apart from one. The one I can always count on; the darkness.