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being meguca is suffering.
[ in so many ways, it's unsimple.
(madoka. you should know that even when you know how much it would hurt you, you do have the courage to make that hard decision. when you learn there is something that only you can do, you’re far kinder and stronger than you yourself know. trust me, i know this.)
they'd spent an hour longer in the orchard's courtyard after apple-picking than absolutely necessary, heels turned out against the latticing steps, fingers splayed thin across the gazebo's railing. late afternoon had gone parabolic (the sun like glimmering panes of glass inverted along the open roofing, canvassing wooden panels). soft music emanating from an open record player, jarring against the half-emptied state of the garden already dyed red with dimming stillness.
only a single screened basket sits between them: apples globed and nestled in along the weaving pattern. all of them for the kaname family, presumably, a loving household of four. homura will take one this time, but only at madoka's vehement urging.
give and take. their reciprocating duality, over and over.
homura's indulged her friend long after most of the other shiftless patrons left the premises. still another ten minutes to the bus stop, another fifteen until madoka's home, yet another five until her own. but her head lolls up with slow insouciance when madoka forgoes another cup of cider to draw her legs up on the chair, making herself smaller. the contrast between her and the wicker chair is startling; hair peachy in the fading light, voice plumed shyly, always on the slow wane. a metaphor for the girl stripped of her deification, no longer a law or a goddess or an inexistent ideal, only madoka again, as she should be.
as she was meant to be.
in other ways, it's retrogression back into the chrysalis of ignorance, memories gradually vanishing. there are instances of clarity when madoka recalls the distorted condition of their world, but even those seconds are few and far-between, easily snuffed out when homura holds her, forehead pressed between her shoulder-blades, calling her back to the humanity that has always coursed through her veins.
and she returns.
it's inevitable that the small talk dies down again as it's all too prone to, never outlasting any of their encounters. for now, that's alright. no deeper sorrows exist in the smoky black particles contused along the rafters, the carrion birds with their beaks elongating, pecking around the dirt. to madoka, they should only be dust motes and flocks of pigeons and nothing more, barring a wayward stare, a trick in perception when reality lingers too long. a contextual mirage. homura's affected ignorance every time, and so comprehension cedes to resignation in her friend. but there are exceptions to the rule.
a moment.
madoka's eyes are too bright today, gold down to the pupils. there's already an entreaty on homura's lips, warm and sweet, a despairing sickness in her breath. ]
Is something wrong, Madoka?
(madoka. you should know that even when you know how much it would hurt you, you do have the courage to make that hard decision. when you learn there is something that only you can do, you’re far kinder and stronger than you yourself know. trust me, i know this.)
they'd spent an hour longer in the orchard's courtyard after apple-picking than absolutely necessary, heels turned out against the latticing steps, fingers splayed thin across the gazebo's railing. late afternoon had gone parabolic (the sun like glimmering panes of glass inverted along the open roofing, canvassing wooden panels). soft music emanating from an open record player, jarring against the half-emptied state of the garden already dyed red with dimming stillness.
only a single screened basket sits between them: apples globed and nestled in along the weaving pattern. all of them for the kaname family, presumably, a loving household of four. homura will take one this time, but only at madoka's vehement urging.
give and take. their reciprocating duality, over and over.
homura's indulged her friend long after most of the other shiftless patrons left the premises. still another ten minutes to the bus stop, another fifteen until madoka's home, yet another five until her own. but her head lolls up with slow insouciance when madoka forgoes another cup of cider to draw her legs up on the chair, making herself smaller. the contrast between her and the wicker chair is startling; hair peachy in the fading light, voice plumed shyly, always on the slow wane. a metaphor for the girl stripped of her deification, no longer a law or a goddess or an inexistent ideal, only madoka again, as she should be.
as she was meant to be.
in other ways, it's retrogression back into the chrysalis of ignorance, memories gradually vanishing. there are instances of clarity when madoka recalls the distorted condition of their world, but even those seconds are few and far-between, easily snuffed out when homura holds her, forehead pressed between her shoulder-blades, calling her back to the humanity that has always coursed through her veins.
and she returns.
it's inevitable that the small talk dies down again as it's all too prone to, never outlasting any of their encounters. for now, that's alright. no deeper sorrows exist in the smoky black particles contused along the rafters, the carrion birds with their beaks elongating, pecking around the dirt. to madoka, they should only be dust motes and flocks of pigeons and nothing more, barring a wayward stare, a trick in perception when reality lingers too long. a contextual mirage. homura's affected ignorance every time, and so comprehension cedes to resignation in her friend. but there are exceptions to the rule.
a moment.
madoka's eyes are too bright today, gold down to the pupils. there's already an entreaty on homura's lips, warm and sweet, a despairing sickness in her breath. ]
Is something wrong, Madoka?