People are Pockets of Light

Incoming philosophical sh*t! Be warned!

So I was running through the park, right? [No, no admirers were chasing me down–or detractors; I just get a kick out of running up and down the park for two hours sometimes. It bewilders the plebeians].

And it’s dark, since it’s night & some corners of the park don’t have lamps (yeah, I run through the dark corners, too, ornery old thing that I am). And people sitting on benches have their mobiles turned on, which lights them up in these glowing patches, and I had this thought: “People are pockets of light.” [Writer brain–don’t ask why it chose that phrasing.]

But that thought stuck out from the mass of other uninteresting ruminations darting through my mind, and I was like–that’s actually kind of pretty, which in itself is amazing since I think, in general, that humankind is kinda sh*t (shh, don’t tell anyone I said that). But it got me to thinking (a fun thing to do, guys, thinking!) that, you know, people are pockets of light. And what kind of light we are to others depends on our personalities and relationship to them.

For example, I imagine some people are that warm, cozy, diffuse light that we curl up and read by at night, the light that calms us with its consoling nimbus at the end of the day (and, yeah, I totally wrote ‘consoling nimbus’–you got a problem with that? 😛 ).

But some people can be glaring spotlights shining on our worst fears, or highlighting our greatest shame, and I’m like–do you really want to be the type of person to point out the faults that people are probably already aware of?

As an aside, I think that extroverts must be those strobe disco-ball lights that are all spastic color wanting people to gyrate to their flashing existence. Whoo hoo! You go spastic all ya want. Imma be introverted here in my hidey-nook, thx.

Anyway, the point is that we can decide what kind of light we are to others, whether a comforting type, a glaring type, or even just a light to shed on someone’s path – though sometimes people will still choose the path through the dark, and sometimes, you just have to let them.

In any case, on my running up and down, I also got an idea for a little scene between two villains in my story (is it disturbing that I sometimes love writing them most?). Essentially Mystery Mage is trying to seduce the wicked queen and she’s like ‘If I become your lover, you might give me a disease.’ And he’s like ‘I’m a mage and I can protect myself’, and she’s like ‘Mebbe, but you could still spread something sick to your lovers if you decided to’, then here is the blip of conversation:

“In which case I would not put it past you to keep yourself healthy while passing on the plague to another. You could still spread something sick to your lovers.”
He does not deny it, merely inclines his head, eyes sinisterly alight at the idea. “All is possible with magic. But would I infect you, my queen?”
“Without a breath of hesitation if it served your ends—which it might.”
“So you’ve cast me in the role of someone taming a skittish cat. With my seduction, I am tempting you with my saucer of cream, and you do not know whether, if you finally drink, that sweet cream won’t be laced with poison.”
“I cannot imagine you would weep at a cat’s loss.”
“Unless it is the hissing and the clawing of its fight that I want.” His very look—aimed at me from beneath his thick lashes—is an invitation to war. “I think you would scratch me down to the bone. If I dare to bare my unarmored flesh.”
I curl my fingernails into my palms, pricking my own unarmored flesh and holding in the desire to give him the war he craves. What a terrible pleasure pain could wreak when one hasn’t felt anything at all for years.
But I am not so easily won.
I swivel on my heel in royal dismissal. “My claws will remain sheathed this night.”
“This battleground is not ceded, Trista,” he murmurs gently. “I will return, and with ever sweeter temptations.”
I hear the whisper of him climbing upon the windowsill, then I sense him pause, the susurration of his cape a sensual rustle over my carpet. “If you’ve a craving to scratch, I leave a bauble upon your sill. Whisper into it, and I will become your captive audience for however long you wish me to be captive.”
I turn at the snap of his cape, witness its silken flare against the stars, as white as bone, then it vanishes into the firmament.
The bauble he has left twinkles slyly, like his eyes, full of hidden threats behind every promise.
My heart loves this dare, but my mind forces my body away.
I always save my sweets to savor last.

I am having way too much fun with them, y’all 😀 I’m especially cackling at him all like, “Come scratch me, darling; try to make it hurt.” Ha!

Oh, and I have an idea for you all. I know there’s something you’re thinking about buying that you don’t need. Ditch it. Don’t buy it. Use the money instead to invite a friend out to lunch. If they wanna know why, feel free to tell ’em, “Read some crazy person’s blog and decided you’re more important than those curtains I was gonna get. Who needs curtains when the neighbors need entertainment?”

Anyhoo, on that note, y’all have a wonderful rest of the week, and as always, be kind!

If you’re still hanging around here feeling like you want more, here’s my shamelessly copied weekly info for Sonya addicts: feel free to join the newsletter I haven’t been writing (but intend to), join the patreon I’ve been seriously neglecting (but want to resume), or check out my books I don’t want anyone to buy (for realz cuz it’s my old writing and I’m like nooo, don’t read it…) before I unpublish even more (like I unpublished my dystopians).

Much happiness to you!

Owner of two cats and huge dreams and author of any kind of love story so long as wild stuff is going on...

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Sonya Lano

Sonya Lano

Owner of two cats and huge dreams and author of any kind of love story so long as wild stuff is going on...

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