Humility licked at her edges. It tumbled like rolls of silk around her, before falling to the floor, softening her steps. Like shiny colourful blankets of light – glimmering, glistening, floating.
It tucked itself into her moments and nestled itself against her grimy skin. Beautiful soft silky strips of humility. Her every breath resounded with gratitude and fell from pink lips, burnt red by the sun.
And the fresh evening air stole any sense of mediocrity the day had summonsed.
The darkness became a cloak for all the mysteries of the night, shrouding her in experience. It promised new beginnings and golden virtues. It fell gently in deep purples, reds, blues and greys.
It rustled delicately as she moved. It was rich and full of life.
Like a patchwork quilt, the cloak flicked into the air before dropping and covering her from the light of day. Any semblance of fear was drowned in the warmth of it, suffocated by its intricate weave.
Each patchwork square held a story. And every stitch that bound those squares together marked the lessons she had learnt along the way.
A long time ago, she had looked at this cloak and noticed only its faults. Small edges where stitching had frayed, or come undone completely. Other sections of material were faded and worn through. It was heavy. And she felt weighed down by it. She saw now though that although some of those squares were made of bitterness and tears, others were steeped in light and laughter. Made with love, and hate, it tasted both sweet, and sour. And it held everything in between.
Now she saw it as a whole. Beautiful colours jostling against murky ones. Golden stitches glistening against dull edges. Rich textures. Every small piece, just as valuable, just as important, as the next. The rich stood proudly beside the poor, the sad beside the happy, while the pure comforted the evil.
It was far from ordinary.
This same cloak of darkness covered her every day, brought it to a close, and welcomed the night. It had done so for as long as she could remember. Many years she had spent trying to writhe from its touch and cast it aside. She had tried to throw it behind her, or below her. She had tried to place it anywhere she could that was far, far away from her.
But here it lay, bigger and more beautiful than before. And now, she welcomed its warmth. She welcomed its familiar smell and the comfort it contained. She waited for its arrival in the evening, and the way its rough edges would flit down over her and bring in the night, dotted with shimmering stars glinting and flickering above.
And woven now into the weaker patches, were long silk threads of humility, and gratitude. They provided strength and beauty, where there perhaps had been none before.
Now she wore that cloak with pride, as the night fell. She thought fondly of it. In its dullness she saw light, in its weakness she saw strength, and in the rugged and worn sections, a life well lived.