Monday, February 16, 2015

The Unicorn

I have joined the second round of Megan Devine's Write Your Grief course. If you know grief, I highly recommend her "grief support that doesn't suck." Check out her website here. I plan to blog at least some of what I write during this course. #writeingrief 

Round Two, Day 1-


"There's a journey she must go on now, and she does not want to go."


Before. She was riding around on a beautiful unicorn under the warm sun. Everything was bathed in the golden light. The world, even the shit piles, reflected the light. 

After. She walks through the charred forest. The unicorn--starved and grey--follows just behind her. Occasionally sunlight will peek through the smog and the unicorn will shudder at the spots of light shining off of his horn. 

Fuck. This isn’t working. Is she going to stab the unicorn? I really want her to stab him. Where is she going? What about her family? (The ones who are alive.) She isn’t alone is she? 

She doesn’t want to be on this journey. But where is she going? Why can’t she refuse? 

She can’t refuse because everything burned. The ash hangs in the air, blocking the light. She can’t stay in that wasteland. Can she? 

She doesn’t want to leave, though. She wants to stay here in this same place that burned to the ground. This is where her family is. They will stay and nurture and wait for the green to sprout from the earth. They will stay knowing that everything was burned to the ground and that some places are scarred too deep for new growth. They will stay knowing that they walk among the ashes. They will not run toward someone else’s light. This darkness is theirs and the light, when it does find its way through, that is their light. 

And so they stay.

What about the unicorn? He is grey still even as the earth renews. The unicorn does not get to go back to the light. She stabs him sometimes just to watch him bleed. Just to make sure he is still there. She only walks beside the unicorn now; they never trot around in the sunlight as they did Before. They walk--in the grey, in the rain, in the light. Together still.