literature

Whiteness, I remember

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Literature Text

Twirling, you remind me of a jewellery box ballerina: elegant and poised. You are so steady, holding your position with precision. Even when flicked by the precarious fingers of children you always return to your position. Only statues could best such dedication.

Such beauty did not prepare me for its rumbling. The mountains shook like the bowels of a monster, and thoughts of ballerinas were replaced by bomber planes. I squinted for the tell-tale wings and listened for the whirling motor.

That time it was actually a natural disaster.

A torrent of snow, iced teeth and titanium claws shred trees. The bystanders are consumed while they looked at you, raising their ski masks in disbelief. No frightening colours tarnished such a homogeneous white, giving the false appearance of calm.

If I were more optimistic, or perhaps more poetic, it appeared as if you had warmly enveloped them in a white blanket.

My surroundings explode into chaos, arms and legs searching for loved ones. Here, further away from the carnage, it convinces me that an avalanche is occurring. It eludes me as to why I am not fleeing.

Was it because of logic? I knew that if I ran to the Lodge you could easily blow down the door and drag us out, one shattered window at a time. More than likely, it was because of my timid personality, content to be the deer who got run over by a tank.

The ground rumbles now. To you we must make strange trees, wilting beneath the heat of fear. If this were a blockbuster the heroine closes her eyes at this very moment. But remember I am the coward, so I watch.

I was surprised that unlike in a blockbuster, you stopped. Had you pitied us? That we were so feeble and easily suffocated that you relented? My guess is that it's neither: the snowflakes that fell were the ashes of a fire that refused to burn.
Such a solemn piece could only come from listening White Night by Nell. Lovely song, but haunting, and it had me wondering what I could come up with from it. As I wrote I saw a perfect opportunity for a piece of contradiction, and ultimately, to highlight that even when you have something defined, it changes because it doesn't want to be that stereotype.

The title also alludes to a piece of poetry :eyes:

Critique on Paper streets and paper gold by ~innercartwheel [link]

Questions:
:bulletblue: How is the effect of moving back and forth from present and past tense? I've used punctuation to help distinguish the two and not make it so jarring, so does it help?
:bulletblue: Your thoughts on the imagery?

Written 12.1.13, edited for several days :D
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