maybe tomorrow || any

[Bastille]

it's got to get easier somehow

It was hardly movement at all, one could say; a subtle shifting of bones beneath a weary and taught form. The chill of the morning air brushed against the short and fine hairs, as though checking to see that they actually existed. His breath was inaudible, a silent exhale that left his nostrils with little more than a twitch. One might have thought he was sleeping, for how still his pale form was in the grass. Sleep, however pleasant it might have been, was not something that found Bastille for very long. When it came, it passed swiftly, as if afraid he might cage it like a fledgling bird. The thought curved his lips, his bare neck shifting as he quelled the laughter that threatened to break the silence.

Silence was something he treasured. He had grown so used to it over the years, that one might call it home for him. With that thought, he remembered just where he was and what he had to do. He drew himself up, long and limber legs baring the weight with almost feline ease. He didn't know what he was doing here, to be frank. He was only somewhat intrigued by this new terrain that surrounded him. So used to the desert that the idea of living elsewhere seemed otherworldly. He wasn't built for the easy life. He was built to suffer. He was built to live from afar. To dream unattainable dreams. To live half a life, for it was what he was given. Where would that fit in here? What was he doing here?

Agitated, his body was a ripple of muscles along a perfectly lined spine when his legs danced beneath him. The energy built, crystal blue eyes searching the landscape with some new found need to be anywhere but here. He couldn't leave the desert, could he? He wasn't made for green pastures. He wasn't exactly good company for others. He was the lone figure that was shadowed by the glistening setting sun beyond the desert sands. He wasn't the one that raced the wings, but one that ran within the raging sand storms as they buried the living beneath their cruel granules. Before he knew it, the pounding in his head was more than just his heartbeat. It was the pounding of his hooves over that soft earthen floor. It was a rhythm in its chaos. It exerted his lungs. It relieved his nervous energy. His body was perfectly in tune with the humming wind that pushed back at him as he thrust his body onward.  

Bastille