Watercolor. Hand-painted stokes that bled into itself, pride in its imperfection; a renewed 'trust in the process' once staring at the finished piece.
She was in a field of black velvet gowns, obelisks rising one by one towards the center to be sanctified before returning, fulfilled. She thought that she would feel suffocated in the noise, but despite the barest distinction in the presentation of her peers, she could read their stories on their paint-washed faces. Relief, excitement, contemplation...there were thousands of different ways that people saw this moment.
And to her relief, she knew perfectly well what this meant to her.
Swept up by the wave of practiced motion, her row all lining up to follow tradition, her eyes travelled far past the few faces she recognized between graduates and instead to the outer horizon of people crowded to watch the turn of the new. Families, friends, people of sentiment and meaning. She knew exactly where her foster parents were going to sit.
And there they were.
It all felt so permanent. A radioactive core surging with overwhelming energy. Proof. Proof that this is where she was meant to be. Proof that it was possible, that she was good enough, that it mattered.
Semantic satiation. A word said so many times that it loses its meaning. The colors look the same now. The sounds haven't changed. There is still the burden of hope in that key moment. A battery being leeched from.
But something can be incomprehensible without being infinite. The fire was not out, but it was choking on its own fumes. This has an aftertaste now, not of going bad but of losing your sweet tooth. Of feeling the jarring realization that the world hasn't changed since then, but your perception of it has.
She can't tell what style she sees the world through now. Just that the watercolor strokes feel like they bleed through the paper. Sickness in its idiotic innocence, or overwhelming yearning to be real again.