Snapshots: Silent Night
Ayrshire, England, 1791-
He never expected to appreciate shore leave so much. Before, that is. Not that appreciate was exactly the best way to put it. The lesser of two evils perhaps, if one could really refer to the difference between the unexpressible misery of the Justinian and the unhappiness that filled his time at his family estate in such easy terms. His eyes are squeezed tightly, as if that would help him fall asleep more quickly. It is because you are not used to being on land that you cannot sleep, he tells himself forcefully, if it is possible to forcefully convince yourself of something that is not true. But that is easier than to let more valid reasons to surface; his fear at facing a family he has never gotten along with, even on Christmas, his terror at what lies after the holiday respite is over.
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Avignon, France, 1828-
Through the ligh of the street lamps, still lit despite the late hour, one could discern a figure leaning against the brick facade of one of the many shops that line the street. His hands are pocketed, his head back resting against the wall, his foot up and pressing against it, his breath showing in the cold. One could almost picture a cigarette in his hand, if the figure happened to smoke. The most remarkable thing, though, is his expression, for his face holds a look of weariness that would surprise both his indulgent family at home nearby and his more forward-thinking friends back in Paris, both of which saw him as the perpetual jokster and bringer of good cheer, if for very different reasons. It is to the streets of the town he grew up in that he escapes from the artifical laughter of his family that he is forced to partake in on such occasions. Mon Dieu, but he hates visiting home.
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Paris, France, 1831-
Why it is that this time of year which was supposed to bring out the best in people made him so melencholy, he has no idea. It is at this time that mankind almost accomplished what he always knew in his heart they are capable of; love, peace, goodwill, charity...Maybe, maybe it is that he always knew it would disappear in a few days, that love would turn to the mediocre, that peace would melt into quarrals, that goodwill would be rare and charity extravagent. He'd heard talk of a new concept - evolution - that all creatures were moving towards some sort of perfect being. And every year he saw the human creature reach it, and saw it dissipate again. The amatur philosopher takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, watching the stars out his window turn from distant specks into fuzzy, glowing balls of light as his vision blurs.
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Meaux, France, 1837-
She is a young woman, and yet still a girl, the person huddled by the window, a single candle on the sill. She has a quilt wrapped around her, under that a nightgown, and her dark hair is falling about her face. Her eyes are dry, but if a person were to see the expression she holds, he would surely expect tears. Six years ago - and why does it seem like a lifetime instead? - she had held the same position in front of another window, yet her expression then had been a nearly reverse one. Now, though, there is no Gabriel to hurry her off to bed, no Michel to tell her Pere Noel won't come if she waits for him, so she sits through the December night, staring out the window.
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New York City, New York, 2001-
It has been a wonderful night, really, a wonderful week, even. Performances daily this week, then, tonight, dinner with Carter, exchanging presents...When she had first arrived home at her apartment, she had let out a sigh of contentment. Why is it that the good things have to be blocked out by by the bad now that she lies awake in her bed? Why must insecurities haunt her at every turn, even on this night which has been wonderful, this night that is supposed to be special? Why, instead, is she merely chiding herself for eating too much recently, even if it is Christmas. But artistic directors don't care about the time of year, after all.
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Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, 2002-
A young man, blond hair falling into his eyes, lies still and awake on his bed as tropical moonlight shines through the nearby window. There is a party going on somewhere, or so he had been told, he cares naught. He is not surrounded by friends, he is not with his family, he is far from home, or at least from his place of birth, but he cares naught. His mind is focused on one thing, and that is another young man thousands of miles away in Coventry, Maine, his eyes fixed on a single spot on the ceiling, not even attempting to sleep in the swealtering heat as he wishes with all his heart that the other man could be here with him now.
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And maybe, just maybe, if they all look out the window at the same moment, no matter where, no matter when they might be situated, they could see a particularly bright star. And maybe that star will fill them with hope, as it has done for people for thousands of years.