A canvas, resemblant of a moment, where the crisp lines of reality are found flawed in interpretation, made into imperfect strokes and fills. Therein lies her heart.
A black ledge cuts across the lower foreground, rather blurry, nondescript. It is merely set there to determine that the piece is not made from remembrance of some flight, becoming more and more forgotten as the paint strikes the page, but made in full view of the canvas’s contents, a scene constantly experienced, however quickly made. Just over the ledge are a multitude of the straight buildings. There is a sense of boldness and beauty in them, perhaps. It is not easily caught, held to light, but it is there. It lies not necessarily in their bold, defiant forms and height, nor quite in the perfect reflections in the countless windows that make up each building’s wall, in which twinkle both stars and city lights, and combine rivalry to a unified beauty, more fitting to a canvas.
The buildings are cast below, perhaps exaggerated so, or perhaps merely a matter of perspective. The buildings grow out of black mist, with no defined land beneath. It is too far up to see the roads, the bases of the buildings, so there are merely the ones that meet the sky, the parts that reach merely for the sake of reaching, however lackluster their form and shape, however colorless they remain, they stretch, many with adorned crowns, ringed in white or golden light, a mark to last the night, and keep wary those that seek to fly through, by some strange whim. The beauty rests in the faintest of strokes. Some few windows are lit from behind, their occupants expressly visible against the perpetual shadow. Small bits of color find themselves in lit windows, undefined, for lack of possible detail, but still beautiful altogether.
She may not have actually have seen them. Perhaps they were imagined, brought to life by a certain hope and trust. However, they were there for her, so they are painted, and in some ways recognizable, both for face and profound value, the only bright hues to be found. Above, a great blue expanse stretches over the rest of the scene, bordering each shadowy square with soft night sky. There lies a space without limits, without lyrics. It is simply free, so long as she can find her way out of Earth’s bonds. Perhaps she has, but is it her first?
The blue void is speckled first with the visible stars, a rather small collection of bright speckles, painted in miniscule spirals. Then, scattered around are strange remembered stars. She knows they are there, but cannot see them now against the bold city lights. She fills them in, lighter speckles almost hidden between the brighter stars. Finally, the moon takes shape at the center, its mare-arranged craters painted first in a light grey, and the rest of the details imagined and added. From the moon stems the odd brightness of the scene, the ability to find the trace bits of color.
She is awakened. It can be told from her quick strokes, her will to paint brighter colors. The flame in her arises to that of the hearth, and her art has found new life. The black canvas may wait, for she has something newer, something more spectacular to paint over. The bright lights all stem from that single flame, far beyond. They are akin to holes punched out of a paper lamp, where the small flame inside shines brightly through. It can be said that he watches closely as she paints, for the strokes occasionally give a nervous twitch, or a simple nudge. She likes to paint for him, it seems.
She often does not paint the night so brightly, typically finding more beauty in its plainly-interpreted dim shadows than in the calm rays the moon casts. It breaks her form. The strokes are no longer regular, managed merely by the tempo of brush to canvas, but painted to the rhythm of conversation, edged with laughter. He is all she could ever want: an audience during and between paintings, not merely for display or the occasional sale. The happiness it brings her she cannot yet account for. She feels it, but she has no measure of it, yet to find its end. For him she paints the stars and moon that he so loves. He knows them well, their arrangements. He must see the stars quite a bit, to be able to recall them so clearly.
She likes the change of style. It gives her something new to think about. Is it just his presence? Has her entire outlook changed? She cannot say exactly, at least not if asked. Perhaps she knows in her heart. Regardless, the canvas has new colors on it, and it is strange for her to see at first, as if it has been painted by another between when she took up the brush and set it down. It is hers, indeed, but she has changed so much. She may find her past self quite unfamiliar. Perhaps she should amend the gates of Canterlot to reflect the transformation. No, it is better she can remind herself of what he does for her, what he is helping her become. No longer do the blacks and greys find dominance over the edges of her scenes, like shadows cast by the eyes.
So she paints. She paints while she can, while she can feel this bright light. She paints, hoping that it will not dissipate, that she can continue to feel this wonderful light all about her. She wants to be able to look back, and see the happiness she once found in the world, the active love she has given up, and still somehow received in full. It is beyond her dreams, to be pulled out of the dim light, to see a vivid world around her. It is all she can do not to cry tears of joy.