Making of Moments

Her mind was clear, for what seemed the first time in ages. Reason and logic seemed obvious now, no mental blocks or emotional cloudiness impeded her view now. No tidal wave engulfed her and overwhelmed her; in fact, she felt she was a mountain, unimpeachable, unable anymore to be moved by such petty emotions as had swept her up and done with her as they willed before. Clarity, she thought. Clarity was what she sensed she might finally have attained, though she did not know how. Somehow, the "how" did not seem to matter so much as the fact of what was right at this instant, this luminous, radiant instant. Now she felt she could see down the ages past and the possibilities of the future, and none seemed insurmountable.

She closed her eyes against the harsh daylight and breathed once in, and once out. Even the breath in her lungs felt new and clean somehow. Yet, even as she marveled at her newfound serenity, she wondered faintly if it would pass, as had all previous seemingly permanent states of mind. If it did, she decided, then it did, and at least it would have existed for this present moment. Transience was a constant in her universe. Permanent transience. Nothing lasted forever. Even a seemingly obvious reality such as this seemed to her to hold untold meaning in this moment.

She attempted to hold that thought, that moment, distill it as if it were a shining liquid into a bottle of memory to store till the next time she felt, as she knew inevitably she would, overwhelmed by the volcano of emotion that was now dormant within her. Yes, she could sense even now the roiling buried seas of agony, ecstasy, anger, tragedy, excitement, hopelessness, and joy that lay writhing under the crust of temporary peace in her soul. All was temporary, and she thought now that perhaps she was glad it was so. Eternal peace would mean nothing if one never knew the alternative. And even now, though she attempted not to let it be so, a seed of hope was indefatigably budding in her heart that perhaps the next time would not come. That perhaps her heart would no longer break or hurt or be crushed. And yet even as she knew this would never be so, she could not quite kill the tiny sapling, but perhaps, she thought, this was for the best. Let hope spring. Maybe it is it's lot to die, to be burned alive in the fire, but for a time it would keep the soul reaching for the light. Reaching for life. And perhaps, she thought to herself as she opened her eyes to the too-bright sun once more, perhaps reaching for life, even just for now, was enough.