Panda

The light is boucing off my ring.

It's only costume jewelry, but very pretty all the same: a cartoon style silver-gilt panda, his face set with a hundred thousand little chips of diamante. He's an early Chrismas present, to mach my woolly panda hat. 

He doesn't make rainbows where the sunlight glances off him; he rains tiny silver droplets onto my book instead instead, like sequins have been scattered across the paper. I smile - it amuses me that when I move my hand and flex my fingers, an invisible wind catches up the sequins he's tossed and throws them back across the page in a different pattern, or blows them further apart, or pushes them closer together. Like fairy dust in a children's storybook; like shimmery makeup smudged at the end of the night. That's what it reminds me of.

It's just the sun reflecting off chips of glass, I know that, but (even though I'm usually not a 'sparkly' person) I do like it. It's childish, and a much welcome relief in my English exam (as with most English exams, I've finished before anyone else and often, I'm left rather bored), where tightly formed letters must be written on tightly ruled lines to meet tightly written guidlines in order for me to procure full marks, which I am expected to do. And then in the lines of all this regimental regulation, is my panda, kitsch and cute, carelessly casting glittery patterns in front of me: a path to follow. Something light, dancing through every dark corner and still shining, a playful and weaving path to follow.

I don't know about you, but I'd much rather walk a bright path than have to stand to attention in a perfect line; I'd much rather be carefree and sparkling and singing my own song than one line of many, all made to fit someone else's expectations. 

The End

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