let me hear your voice tonight (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alexseanchai) wrote2014-05-05 05:03 pm
alexseanchai) wrote2014-05-05 05:03 pm
Entry tags:
oh right sunday six (belated)
The path was long, worn wide with the footfalls of however many hundreds of aspiring poets before her. The Pony Path, the guidebook called it, in contrast to the Fox's Path and the path whose name Joan couldn't pronounce.
Looking at the Pony Path, Joan could almost see the shapes of the family stories about this mountain ridge: two women, one dark-haired and one golden, both far paler than walnutwood-brown Joan, hiking up the trail.
Would Joan's story end with her waking dead, like Carys, or mad, like Branwen, or—or was it all just folktale and legend, sound and fury, signifying, as Shakespeare said, nothing?
If it was all nothing, why was she here?
A drop of water hit Joan's head.
Looking at the Pony Path, Joan could almost see the shapes of the family stories about this mountain ridge: two women, one dark-haired and one golden, both far paler than walnutwood-brown Joan, hiking up the trail.
Would Joan's story end with her waking dead, like Carys, or mad, like Branwen, or—or was it all just folktale and legend, sound and fury, signifying, as Shakespeare said, nothing?
If it was all nothing, why was she here?
A drop of water hit Joan's head.
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