Elysian

A brush of my finger across a large expanse of sky leaves behind featherlight trails of orange, like long tufts of cotton candy. 

As I work, the colors ooze into one another with the grace of a swan, as if bleeding across the surface of the world.

It is my turn to paint the sky.

Each night, as the world below winds down from long days of waking we give them a sight to behold. Violets and magentas, butter yellows and orange cream soda; each fading away with every breath.

All the more beautiful because they cannot last forever.

I make my last stroke of blush and settle myself in the folds and caress of a cloud. The puffy white air enfolds me in an embrace and I could lie here forever, gazing at my work in the sky, listening to breaths of air that brush against my skin. 

The hours pass, and my sky goes with them. In despair, I wave my fingers in farewell as I let myself sink through the air and descend to Earth. 

The air is crisp, but not unpleasant, as the sky growing further and further above me turns to indigo.

My feet settle in a grassy clearing, fireflies winking at me as I pass into a clove of trees.

Our home lies in the folds of the forest where the leaves provide shelter from the harsher weathers. It is a beautiful place; twinkling lights strung from every branch, my kind in all colors and shapes mingling under the stars of our making and the ones high in the sky.

My mood turns blue, like the sky aloft. Even among all the hustle and bustle of my home, I find myself in need of solitude. Where the forest is my home, solitude is my sanctuary. 

Hands brush my shoulders and kind words wash my face as I make my way through the crowds. I leave the lights and chatter behind, approaching thicker trees. When I reach the outskirts of the forest, I search the dark green of the grass, overgrowing in this untended part of the woods. My trailing fingers brush a stone, then another, until I’ve found my path that leads deeper into the dark.

It is said among my kind that humans are fearful of the dark, often because they cannot know what lies within. But I know what lies within me, and that is what matters most. Following my stones and the beat of my heart, I make my way through the quiet of the dark. Owls coo, deer pad past, squirrels nestle in their nests, and I skim my fingers over the rough bark.

Before long, I arrive in the clearing of my sanctuary. Lights are strung in the trees nearby-like the ones from home-to light up a lake of the clearest blue. To look into the lake is to see deep beneath the surface, where the water lies cold and still. Or to see the reflection of oneself. Today, I see both, and neither.

Lost in the depths of the water and my thoughts, I hear not when a figure approaches through the woods behind me. An astonished gasp alerts me to their presence.

It is a male, of my kind, small mouth wide in wonder, the brown of his wispy hair clashing with the trunks beyond him. 

“Goodness, you frightened me!” I exclaim, surprised at another presence in my sanctuary. 

“Forgive me,” he responds in kind. “Only, I followed you into the woods, for I could not help my curiosity.”

My gaze got caught in the blue of his eyes, so similar to the depths of the lake before me. I wave him over to my side. “Fear not. I came here to be alone, but I do not mind the company this night.”

His gaze turns quizzical as he sits by my side before the lake. “You seem quite downcast. May I help?”

“Oh, it is not as bad as that. Only, this evening was my turn to paint the sky. I always feel a bit melancholy, in the wake of its disappearance. It is so lovely to see something you created come to life.”

“I quite agree. As a matter of fact, it is my turn to paint the sky in the morning. Would you permit me to make it in your vision? I really do wish to help.” he says hopefully, taking my hand in his. The blue of his eyes is so earnest, never leaving the gold of my own, and I find I cannot resist.

Lying side by side on the bank of the lake, we describe to each other the most wondrous sky we can imagine, colors of turquoise, rose, lilac, coral, the amber of my eyes. The precise shapes of the clouds, puffy as can be, playing tricks on the eyes of children; giving the illusion of birds, puppies, ice cream. The way the shades will run into each other, like rivers of joy, for that is what painting the sky brings us, immense, immense joy.

He shares his wishes for the world, his passion for the sky to spread his joy to others, and I watch the lights dance across his skin, golden, the purse of his lips when deep in thought. I could lie here forever, the warmth of his shoulder pressed against mine, the tenor of his voice describing such glorious ideas. The feel of his name on my lips: Elysian. 

In return, he listens aptly to me, the great sweep of my emotions as deep as the lake we lie beside, the colors, shapes, and words that reverberate in the folds of my mind, my ideas of humanity and what it means to be alive. My skin buzzes everywhere I feel his eyes, but I keep my gaze to the sky above, so as not to be entranced by him.

He is silent for a moment before seeming to come to a decision. “I feel alive, sitting here next to you.”

My heart skips, like a rock across the surface of water. I let my eyes succumb to their longing, and melt in his, as if fire was truly blue all along. 

As we find ourselves in each others’ eyes, the forest around us becomes brighter with each stilted breath, and in what seems like the blink of an eye, he must leave to paint our sky.

“I will come back for you,” he says, resting his forehead against my own.

“I will watch you,” I say, breathing the words onto his lips like a promise.

Those lips brush the sensitized skin of my forehead, and he is ascending, up, up, into the sky.

I watch as the first brush of Elysian’s artists’ finger creates a streak of amber gold.