July 11 by The Running Son
✿On deep wells✿
Deep wells have a mystique. They have a sound—a whisper that draws us to their edge. The woman looks in, and sees in the soft dim reflection both herself, and the moon. Both reflections of sun.
Deep wells call. In whispers they promise the moon’s purity. In longings, the woman answers, hoping the dark, and the moisture will make her, and the moon, that much brighter.
Also, dark obscures dark. As the stars pierce the universal black each evening and in daytime recede into the blue heavens, so do our deep fears, all shades of night, and dark, recede into the dim comfort of the well’s pitch embrace.
Cold feels like warmth, there. And the walls, so like arms encircling, after a time begin to soften in her mind, as if those of a man. The waters cold keeps her feeling strangely vital, as if floating in the chill water made all dreams staccato, and brought hopes into relief. Then, time happens.
The cycling sun breaks the deep cool. Each morning it illuminates the well, and the magic is snapped. And the sun also has it’s own language, its own call. It touches flesh, and a refreshing begins to take place, a small flooding of grace. And promises, mere rays and glimpses, are made. They suggest, by a taste of warmth, a new way to reflect and be reflected.
This impression gifted by the sun–this promise–when fought, will fade. A fading impression that returns to the not-exactly-black of closed eyelids, and the dark, and the moon. Over years, the sun becomes one more deep fear, needing shading.
The climb out is offered each sunrise, where the sun waits, its glorious life-giving rays recharged, ready to embrace, and send its light exchanging arms deep into every cold place. And when dark falls once more, The sun reflects its presence in the moon, a promise to rise again, and never, ever leave her.
☀ ☁ ☾
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.