04-08-2015, 02:37 PM
What would it be like to be born? By the time we reach the age we can contemplate this life event, we have already forgotten it. To have been shut off from the world in a tiny black box, with only the company of distant echoing voices of some people you should know but have yet to meet—overwhelming, wouldn’t it be? To be trapped in a world only motivated by sounds of familiar songs, and to be whisked around like well… a baby… well wouldn’t that be the life?
And we wonder why us, as children, like lullabies so much.
So here comes the world’s most recent child—a black onyx bundle soaked and stuck in a goo shell. He opens his eyes, hazel iris’s unable to focus on shapes and colours around him but nevertheless trying. Long eyelashes waft with every movement, his muzzle muffling the air like the baby he is. He is crowded by a familiar voice—that echoing voice he had heard for days and days—speaking in a much clearer tone than ever before. His vision is still blurred, adjusting to this new thing called light that surrounds him with vibrant hues and tones.
He feels her hot breath tingle his skin and whips his head around like a groggy patient, staring at her in an awkward feeling of love and an overwhelming feeling of she has a body. It is then that his mother decides he must stand (as all children should) and encourages him with persistence and tenderly love.
Dalten is having none of it.
She tries, and so does he. Although instead of trying to help her make him stand, he tries to make it so he remains seated. What was the point of standing when the grass was so incredibly comfy? He pins his ears in an irritable fashion and impatiently grunts.
And we wonder why us, as children, like lullabies so much.
So here comes the world’s most recent child—a black onyx bundle soaked and stuck in a goo shell. He opens his eyes, hazel iris’s unable to focus on shapes and colours around him but nevertheless trying. Long eyelashes waft with every movement, his muzzle muffling the air like the baby he is. He is crowded by a familiar voice—that echoing voice he had heard for days and days—speaking in a much clearer tone than ever before. His vision is still blurred, adjusting to this new thing called light that surrounds him with vibrant hues and tones.
He feels her hot breath tingle his skin and whips his head around like a groggy patient, staring at her in an awkward feeling of love and an overwhelming feeling of she has a body. It is then that his mother decides he must stand (as all children should) and encourages him with persistence and tenderly love.
Dalten is having none of it.
She tries, and so does he. Although instead of trying to help her make him stand, he tries to make it so he remains seated. What was the point of standing when the grass was so incredibly comfy? He pins his ears in an irritable fashion and impatiently grunts.