02-28-2016, 05:45 PM
my friend makes rings, she swirls and sings
she’s a mystic in the sense that she’s still mystified by things
she’s a mystic in the sense that she’s still mystified by things
Falling or rising.
Constellations whirl past (a collection curved back and mirrored – horns; a sprawl of limbs and leaves – a tree where she had waited), guiding her through this permeation; but they must just be tricks of the dark, or otherwise things she is holding onto from the living, because when she looks behind (or in front) of her, there is no light, but nothing. There are no stars blinking or pinholes of sun, nor warmth from these things that should flush her skin.
But then, she cannot feel the air brush her girth, either, though she knows she is in transit.
She thinks she is in transit.
(She spills, or scales, onwards.)
Ever towards something, or maybe a permanent nothing like this. Falling or rising.
Or staying still, doomed to be suspended in a dead, black womb. Father? It echos here. Gyrates off the nothingness and suddenly she realizes there must be definitions to this place. There must be surfaces off which her calls can bounce; there must be ends and beginnings and if there is, then it is not dead but some other way of living.
Father?
(He had wanted her to feel alone. Now alone is what she is, through and through. Imprisoned in a cage of his own making… or her’s. Or someone cruel and careless. Or something who sees nothing and thinks it attractive. A blind god? A pale death.)
Father? She takes a step forward but there is nothing to say that she is moving. No way to orient herself.
Her head hurts.
Father? It comes to her from all directions, every one of them sad.
(Had she been so sad?) She realizes, she thinks, she cannot see from both eyes. Her head hurts, more to the left than to the right (if there is left and right here), where he had bruised and battered her face and sent one eye askew – he is a true expressionist, the way he wields asymmetry.
Father? Maybe she is lost but she sees no way back so she stands still. Nothing to be done.
and I pray to blades of grass to find forgiveness in the weeds.
@[Cassi] - I left the scene... utterly black and decriptionless, because it is Heartworm's place, after all, and Nyxia was just 'in transit' to the dream having not yet been 'sucked in', so I suppose you can powerplay her (kind if) entering or the dream unfolding? This is wonderfully weird. :]