12-26-2016, 10:57 AM
But all that they can see, the words revealed;
the only real thing that I’ve got left to feel.
the only real thing that I’ve got left to feel.
His unsteady legs begin to rise from the frigid silt that had long since settled into a dense clay, his wary eyes searching just beyond the thicket that he had so carefully tucked himself away into. His heart, with its weakened and irregular rhythm, pounds steadily within the confines of his chest, rising into his throat as fear seizes the very core of his being. The world no longer moves around him, though it seems to still move beneath him, and the thought paralyzes him.
The air, which had been weaving through drying, brittle leaves, is now still - the winding branches above him suspended in an unnatural position, whisked up by the wind and suspended in time. With a mere turn of his broad cheek, he becomes eye level with a small and fragile hummingbird, with its gleaming eyes and tireless wings held still by some unseen force. A breath he hadn't known he'd been holding escapes, clouding the too-still bird in a cloak of fog from the warm carbon dioxide. Still, it does not move.
Am I dying? Is this what death feels like?
Time was a fickle thing - something fragile and too unpredictable, and yet often wasted and forgotten. Each and every tender thread of life hangs in the balance, with the wiry, sharpened scissors of Time hanging precariously over its delicately woven string, too easily ignored in the midst of the brutality of war and the throes of passion and pining. His own thread hung thinner than most from birth, his heart weak and poorly functioning. Every breath could be his last, and too many times he had come dangerously close to a pitiful, lonely and dire end.
His heart pounds still, thrumming loudly in his head as the silence begins to settle, enveloping and suffocating him. Suddenly, the world begins to move around him again, but too quickly. The dying leaves fall to the impacted ground below, the colors rapidly shifting and changing from vibrant hues of orange and yellow to a dull beige, to a dreary white and gray. The once clear sky is soon shrouded in thick, heavy clouds in the distance, from which dense snowflakes fall. A shiver trails along the course of his spine as a feeling of dread slowly simmers within the pit of his belly. I've died; I'm dead. The end has come from him, and now it is showing him all that he will miss.
His long legs move forward without command, his chest tight and pained from the strain of his adrenaline on his delicate organs. Time is shifting and changing around him, and yet he feels disconnected and uncomfortable in its quickened presence - as if it were a skin he was never meant to wear. The glacial air caresses his warm flesh, urging him towards something he cannot see or know. It reminds him of his youth, of delicate moments shared with his mother, of being cradled too close to his father in a desperate bid to hide away from the frigid cold of the tundran winter. An ache grows within him now, but his heart churns still, and he can only recognize the pain as bubbling, festering regret. He longed for those days of innocence; as forgotten as Time himself.
At last, his spindly legs carry him over the rising crest of a hill, and his deep brown eyes peer upon the immense, brooding cave that lay before him. Three entrances - one to the right, one to the left and one centered evenly between. Another puff of air emerges now as a long, drawn out sigh falls from his whiskered lips. Decisions, he says to no one but himself. What could it possibly matter? I've already died.
But a sound echoes off of the dense chambers of one of the pathways, bouncing off the rivets and grooves of hardened stone, causing his heart to seize again. A voice. A scream. A plea for help. With a sudden surge of adrenaline, he paces, anxiety riddled within his slender body as he moves between each entrance. Which was the sound coming from? It sounded as if it were reverberating from each equally. Still, they screamed, and his mind screamed too.
Finally, a sharp turn is made towards the center cavern as he launches himself blindly into the bleak darkness of it all, seeking the sound and hoping with fervent wonder that he might find something fulfilling in the end. And not his own end.
The air, which had been weaving through drying, brittle leaves, is now still - the winding branches above him suspended in an unnatural position, whisked up by the wind and suspended in time. With a mere turn of his broad cheek, he becomes eye level with a small and fragile hummingbird, with its gleaming eyes and tireless wings held still by some unseen force. A breath he hadn't known he'd been holding escapes, clouding the too-still bird in a cloak of fog from the warm carbon dioxide. Still, it does not move.
Am I dying? Is this what death feels like?
Time was a fickle thing - something fragile and too unpredictable, and yet often wasted and forgotten. Each and every tender thread of life hangs in the balance, with the wiry, sharpened scissors of Time hanging precariously over its delicately woven string, too easily ignored in the midst of the brutality of war and the throes of passion and pining. His own thread hung thinner than most from birth, his heart weak and poorly functioning. Every breath could be his last, and too many times he had come dangerously close to a pitiful, lonely and dire end.
His heart pounds still, thrumming loudly in his head as the silence begins to settle, enveloping and suffocating him. Suddenly, the world begins to move around him again, but too quickly. The dying leaves fall to the impacted ground below, the colors rapidly shifting and changing from vibrant hues of orange and yellow to a dull beige, to a dreary white and gray. The once clear sky is soon shrouded in thick, heavy clouds in the distance, from which dense snowflakes fall. A shiver trails along the course of his spine as a feeling of dread slowly simmers within the pit of his belly. I've died; I'm dead. The end has come from him, and now it is showing him all that he will miss.
His long legs move forward without command, his chest tight and pained from the strain of his adrenaline on his delicate organs. Time is shifting and changing around him, and yet he feels disconnected and uncomfortable in its quickened presence - as if it were a skin he was never meant to wear. The glacial air caresses his warm flesh, urging him towards something he cannot see or know. It reminds him of his youth, of delicate moments shared with his mother, of being cradled too close to his father in a desperate bid to hide away from the frigid cold of the tundran winter. An ache grows within him now, but his heart churns still, and he can only recognize the pain as bubbling, festering regret. He longed for those days of innocence; as forgotten as Time himself.
At last, his spindly legs carry him over the rising crest of a hill, and his deep brown eyes peer upon the immense, brooding cave that lay before him. Three entrances - one to the right, one to the left and one centered evenly between. Another puff of air emerges now as a long, drawn out sigh falls from his whiskered lips. Decisions, he says to no one but himself. What could it possibly matter? I've already died.
But a sound echoes off of the dense chambers of one of the pathways, bouncing off the rivets and grooves of hardened stone, causing his heart to seize again. A voice. A scream. A plea for help. With a sudden surge of adrenaline, he paces, anxiety riddled within his slender body as he moves between each entrance. Which was the sound coming from? It sounded as if it were reverberating from each equally. Still, they screamed, and his mind screamed too.
Finally, a sharp turn is made towards the center cavern as he launches himself blindly into the bleak darkness of it all, seeking the sound and hoping with fervent wonder that he might find something fulfilling in the end. And not his own end.
ARGO
Just stuck, hollow and alone.
And the fault is my own.
And the fault is my own.
Argo takes the center path, and prefers a trait over points.
