right.  having dragged my muse back from her extended holiday somewhere warm and sunny, she is now sitting in a corner, sulking.  therefore, this metaphor probably makes no sense to anyone but me.  either that, or it’s particularly badly expressed.  we’ll see.  here, for curious viewers of window-licking is my effort for #WeekendWriter #12:

 

A star may fall a long, long way from where it was born.  Burning brightly through the darkness, spreading wonder in its wake, its landing site is still largely a matter of chance.  And when it lands, we see its true nature.  Gone the glamour and the grace and the fire and, in its place?  The prosaic.  The dull.  Once the glow of its descent–at once slow and graceful, yet impossibly fast and abrupt–has faded, what then?  Still it is special, but its uniqueness is much, much harder to fathom.  It takes time and determination, and special tools.

But the apple?  We are told that it doesn’t fall far from the tree.  The apple is nearly always prosaic.  Common.  Almost ubiquitous and unnoticed.  Yet one hardly needs to do more than glance at it to see its glow, its colour, its beauty and miraculous nature.  The only tools needed to see its heart are the ones we all (or, at least, most of us) carry.  Bite open its core, and the seeds of greatness hidden within can be readily counted, easily freed and nurtured.

Both prosaic at different times, both wondrous in their own way.

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