the threads in her head

The city's covered with haze, and one can only discern a faint shroudy silhouette of buildings in the distance. The kindly weather frog which adorned the daily weather forecast of the city in the chinese newspaper was depicted as down and gloomy today, fitting, with the scene that greets one eye as one gazes from the window.

Yea, the sunny island has gone all hazy, like a mirage of the desert, at times there, at times not. And it's rather sad that the haze has chose to come and settle on such a beautiful day.

For this day was meant to be beautiful, a legend of great tales, of the lady up in the moon. Of grace and beauty, gentle smooth motion, soft sways and dances. A gentle arch of body, a graceful turn, a little smile that tugs at the corner of the dancer's lips.

To be spent in laugher and joy, of merry chases, the bright chuckles and squeals from children. The warm rosy glow of lanterns, their flickering lights cast gently on the grass.

"Mummy, can you light up my lantern for me?"

A striking of matches against a year-old match box, and a flame is lighted up, burning brightly with a zealous passion. Slowly it touches down on the candle wick, and kisses its own flame into the cold drab stick of wax, and then a burst, a glow of warm fire, and the candle is lighted, and it feels almost like a magic show.

And you know fire hurts, and fire burns, but right now fire is nestling deep inside your paper lantern. Your little flame that you can almost.. almost hold and call your own, claiming supremacy over the elements of nature.

Until of course, the wind decides to throw you off the throne, and blows it gust of air at your lantern, such that it tilts and the kiss of the flame lands lightly on the paper too. Lightly I say, but in one moment, that paper is burning burning burning, brightly, and the fragile papers are turning into but crinkled black edges that disintegrate at the slightest force. And all is but ashes.

Though now it's all haze.