As the remnants of the spark skitter to a stop, the world sits on a precipice. It is suspended (and yet in perpetual motion) between the realms of winter and the temporary spell of Saint Valentine, who sits ponderously atop the largest wall in the sky, eyeing the trinkets and glittery tat passed between hands and mouths, and wonders what he ever did to deserve it. His eyes, then caught, fall on a shock of blonde and a flash of red not trading gifts with sometimes lovers but instead sat quietly, bathed in glowing warmth, staring at her own reflection. The mirror, he notes, is split eight ways with eight angles and eight softly smirking images gaze back. She does not blink. She looks at herself as an artist might look at his favourite painting, or a mother might look at her most beautiful child. Her hands brush her skin in silent reverence and her lips purse in worship. Saint Valentine watches her devotion and cannot help but feel responsible. He cradles her soul in his outstretched hand, worried for her pride and yet proud of her spirit. She continues, oblivious but sure.
This did not turn out as planned. It was to be a diptych, with the second uploaded next week but the photographic gods were not smiling upon me. They instead gave me this. I am pleased regardless. Though my eyes are disappointed that so much work went into them but they are not visible. My left eye resents the fact that I stabbed it with a liquid eyeliner brush and I may never be able to convince it to appear in photos again.
Happy Valentine’s for tomorrow, merry readerlings.