Pining For Sunlight
I'm still pining for the sun. I have been pining for the sun ever since I can remember, because I originally had let myself open as a book whenever the rays of it touched my face gently . . . and I cried when I saw it as it set over the horizon. Because, when it's shallow sheathes of rays fell across my pale face, like as though a glistening gold blanket was draped over me, all of my features relaxed so completely and evenly all throughout my bat form, so scorned by some, that I allowed myself to fall down into a trance, for a change of happiness. I had never before been as happy until the first time that I sat by the lake at sunset with an open notebook across my knees as I allowed the sun to play with me, fingering across me like a force of nature that tickled me mercilessly.
This glowing ball of a fiery-reddish pigment that hung suspended in space by God knew of no troubled times and worked through an unmeasured scope of air and space as we know it, although perhaps not even that. Perhaps air and space was even unknown to this playful being, this childlike structure hung in the sky, but a structure, that, while still being some kind of structure I guess, was beautiful. I mean to say that artists could never depict anything so grand, in either the magical kingdom or human land. I connected with its nature while it connected, of course, to mine, but yet, I could not ever make myself believe that anything good and pure existed in the world, despite the optimism of the beautiful red ball that seemed to say otherwise. All of the bat creatures, the winged creatures, the gnomes, and elves, and fairies, past kings, and queens, all those who belonged to the Lord Serpent, were under his tyranny . . . not one save for the bats saw me as anything save for the ugliest of demons that ever did exist. Of course I know that I am no demon. Or did. But, after the sun dipped beneath the horizon for the last time, I no longer maintained the certainty that I could be anything save for a demon, despite what I may have been born to be . . . for now, all I see is the dark. When I write, it is in the dark and I finger my way across the page.
I'm still- I'm still pining for the sun.
The heat of the day had been pounding upon my head, and I actually had a horrible headache when they took me. I think I might even have been angry at the sun . . . for making me tired and sweaty. I had such a strange, deeply-inlaid connection with this burning gas ball, that I'm sure much of the time I speak about this entity as though he were an old friend, we were old friends who . . . sometimes quarrel, and engage in usual scruples and . . . those facets of interaction. How I will forever pine after those long hours in which the sun saw fit to burn my white skin while encasing me with a crusty layer of sweat to cake me. I do not care if the sun once in a while had a penchant to wear me out or make me tired. Why would I? Especially after.
After I was taken came the mongrels. They bore me upon their backs in the manner of the most blessed steeds working beneath the commandments of any king. When they were placed beneath the Lord Serpent, the most revolting creature, they always carried themselves with immense power that glorified everything around them like other king's servants . . . but only by making such onlookers awestruck by the fact that something which looked so monstrous on the exterior could actually be so enchantingly powerful.They come when we do not expect them. They come when you are at peace, and these mongrels take away the magical spirit by drawing from it the happiness that composes it. They then bear you away into the wilderness until you reach the cave which will serve as the site of your physical death, or that of the spirit's. Mine was the death of spirit.