sorry-im-vain

      SHE WAS MADE OF MUSIC, ROSES, & GALAXIES.

                             your parents had always said there was CHRISTMAS in your smile, and you would laugh, wondering what you shared with pine needles and handed down ornaments but, on december 12th 2322, you were the long overdue present to a couple who had always been so woefully in love ;; janet and benjamin rand, but your mother had always insisted that people called her jane … it was easier to set to rhyme within the poems that your father used to write. they had always applied faith in the fact that they, one soul seemingly doomed to inhabit two forms, had found balance in the way that your father’s head was always set to the stars while your mother’s heart set him to voyage there. 

                           although your parents were explorers, you were born on earth ;; you grew to question why so many were fleeting for the stars as you came to love the chicago neighbor that raised you. they said … one had to always know where they came from in order to properly see where they were going and, while being enamored with earth once more, decided to raise you there for the first sixteen years of your life. you were the perfect merriment of both illogical extremes that embodied your parents, with a heart for song and dance and art and the things that were so far removed from their inspired origins …. and a head to know that what lived in you should never truly die, you founded a deep appreciation for ballet and the peace that would come from several shades of paint staining stolen curls of your golden tinseled hair. 

                        sixteen came and your parents became star sick ;; after being plagued by the sort of pain that throbbed at the base of one’s neck after consistent strains to stare skyward. you stayed, deciding that you were never one to leave something that you hadn’t finished and, for that, your parents left you in the care of chicago and set off HOME. you danced for 730 days after that, all the while painting the portraits of galaxies that they would send to you but, on your 6570th day on earth, you too would be set to join them in space. their ship had broken down in a lone quadrant, floating outside of federation space at sub-warp speeds and, much in the way that a galaxy often portrayed deeper waters, something much larger than them had sprung from the darkness in search of prey. saweoure, a planet unknown to a woman that had seen little more than her dense chicago apartment and the way that lights could drown out a thousand faces, was a vicious planet of forced slavery and heinous conditions … your father was denied the opportunity to write his poetry there.

                    you had filled out your starfleet application with the following attributes : quick learner, detail oriented, goal driven, and reliable : … you neglected to mention your deep need to set right the space that your parents had fallen in love with. you were accepted as a crew member shortly thereafter, developing an exemplary record of service that you had come to expect from yourself                   failure was hardly a tactical option and, in setting her heart upon something, anything short of fulfillment was short to break it. your ambition had lent you many skills while aboard merchant vessels and smaller ships, although a glorified secretary you knew you were capable of so much more and, because of this, you were soon stationed aboard the starship enterprise as the personal yeoman to captain jim kirk. 

                    you still listen to lully and tchaikovsky. you still smile to yourself in the mirror when december comes to an end. you still paint of what you left behind.