01-08-2019, 08:49 AM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
The past is a ridiculed thing. Too often, people settle inside it, burrow up like a hibernating creature. They opt not to surface from their hole, like the birthing of an abomination, to face the present. The past is a deadly thing, best not to dwell on it, little thing. Your father, your mother; they are buried in the musty dirt. Let them lie, let their bodies be covered with the body of Beqanna, be here (be now, be exactly. Right. Now.)
Your voice cracks the silent morning - a simple greeting, a query for company. It would be a welcome change if He hadn’t known you were coming. He had seen you, crawling through the growth of the river land. A galaxy crossing the wooded land, traveling distance and space towards a black hole you did not see coming. Too young to realize the depth of your decisions - too soft minded to know the vortex you are choosing to go to. You know nothing of Beqanna’s past, and so you know nothing of the mistake you are making.
“You may.” He says quietly, watching your curiosity pique like a growing star. There is no fear in the delicate steps you are taking; your lack of age is showing in the lackadaisical movements you are making. Tread lightly, little galaxy, this black hole is not the best of company either.
“All of Beqanna is quite unusual now, hm?” He is referring to the vomit of colors and traits and deluded appearances; the free flowing waves of mimicry and mutations and anything but the mundane. You were no different, He knows - not simply in the way your body wore the sky, but he felt that prod and pull at the edge of his mind, he knew that there was little to limit what your mind could hold onto. That is, of course, save for magic.
“And what do you do, little nebulous thing?”
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in