Daylight died, and the passion hues of ending eve cooled, steeling into blackness and patterned stars. Leo rested in repose low in night sky with points of Universe fire scattered above and all around.
He thought again of the lost glow and canvas of sky painted in the rising and dying of day and their meaning to his own lived experience.
“How do you find it again?” he asked to her. “Do you leave, travel somewhere new? Do you find it somewhere else, from a different vantage point of sky? Do you hold fast, living in patience and belief that—in time—the light will burn for you again? Are you happy in the memory? Is the memory enough?”
She listened in contemplation, connecting distant points of Universe fire into shapes of her own imagination. She interpreted the intent of his questions as her mind’s shaping of stars took form into shape and story. Only then did she respond.
“You say that it is gone,” she began, “but, just now, you saw it live before your eyes. It will return again in mornings—if you rise to see it show—and appear furthermore in eves if we are not too distracted in our days to see.
Maybe, to find what you say you wish, it takes only a change in mind to better hone our sight. Maybe our focus is misplaced, and the purpose of world and life cycles are misread.
If it is the colors of soul you seek, day and night are the interludes—not the moments when sky paints as dream. Day and night are the waiting before romance and spirit reappear. The romance, passion—light—is never meant to shine unbroken. Is that not part of the romance, the fleeting, ephemeral nature of its sign, that keeps us searching, waiting, for when it lives again?
You could travel the world. Maybe it will hit you different somewhere new. But first, is it the colors in sky, or another that you miss? We must first be honest with what it is we seek. Allusions leave us lost if ungrounded to a truth.
Keep living, and you will find its light again.”
Her mind continued shaping the heavens into order of a story. She imagined a little home, a child whose eyes gleamed with the light of Saturn’s shine. It was all a dream, an interpretation of the Heavens into what one imagined life could be.
“Passion never dies,” she ended. “It rises and falls like the sun that paints its signs. Travel the world. Stay in place. Return to it in memory. Just keep living. Be present, and you will witness what you seek when world and sky are right.”
He listened, shaping too the Heavens in a dream. He saw the glimmer of Venus’ glow: reflection from the fallen sun. A symbol and story shaped, and sense was made in the imagined order of scattered Universe fire.