06-03-2021, 06:13 PM
T U M U L T
He feels out of place here, though perhaps that is because the storm-cloud gray of him clashes so vibrantly against the summer-blue of the sky. He is shades of gray with wings like bruised clouds that bleed rain from the tips of them, a dark mark against the green of the grass and the yellow of the sun, the water-color of flowers scattered across the landscape.
A blot of depression against a joyous world, and his skin itches with the self-conscious anxiety he has never quite been able to shake.
He finds himself wondering again why he was here.
He looks up at the sky again, cloudless and blue, and the very idea of trying to use his wings in such weather inspires a phantom fatigue in his bones. It would be impossible to leave now, to have the strength to get back through whatever mysterious barrier he had broken to end up here.
With a sigh he turns his gray eyes from the sky to his surroundings, looking beyond those that drifted nearby. He does not mean to but his gaze catches briefly with hers, and there is a constricting feeling in his chest. He has never been good at small talk or conversation, but he has not spoken to a single soul since arriving here and it was beginning to wear on him—a foreboding feeling that told him if he didn’t do it now, he would never do it at all.
He walks towards her, his steps unhurried but purposeful. The golden sun glints off the water that drips from the clouds of his wings, and his thick, wind-knotted mane drapes along the various grays of his cloud-colored neck. While he is everything a storm would look like should it ever decide to manifest itself into a physical shape, the uncertainty in his eyes is clear. When he stops it is not even at the edge of the pond that she stands in, but instead still several paces away from it. She is colored in shades of gray, too, except for the almost shocking amethyst of her eyes.
He should have said hello, or some other form of normal greeting, but instead he asks her, “Where are we?”
A blot of depression against a joyous world, and his skin itches with the self-conscious anxiety he has never quite been able to shake.
He finds himself wondering again why he was here.
He looks up at the sky again, cloudless and blue, and the very idea of trying to use his wings in such weather inspires a phantom fatigue in his bones. It would be impossible to leave now, to have the strength to get back through whatever mysterious barrier he had broken to end up here.
With a sigh he turns his gray eyes from the sky to his surroundings, looking beyond those that drifted nearby. He does not mean to but his gaze catches briefly with hers, and there is a constricting feeling in his chest. He has never been good at small talk or conversation, but he has not spoken to a single soul since arriving here and it was beginning to wear on him—a foreboding feeling that told him if he didn’t do it now, he would never do it at all.
He walks towards her, his steps unhurried but purposeful. The golden sun glints off the water that drips from the clouds of his wings, and his thick, wind-knotted mane drapes along the various grays of his cloud-colored neck. While he is everything a storm would look like should it ever decide to manifest itself into a physical shape, the uncertainty in his eyes is clear. When he stops it is not even at the edge of the pond that she stands in, but instead still several paces away from it. She is colored in shades of gray, too, except for the almost shocking amethyst of her eyes.
He should have said hello, or some other form of normal greeting, but instead he asks her, “Where are we?”
CAN YOU TELL ME, WILL I BREAK OR WILL I BEND?
@[Agnieszka]