is it just me?; any

[Reuen]

Is it just me, Or do you wonder if we're put here just to see, Scars tell a thousand stories. Hidden beyond the ash ridge depths, there are sorrowful tales, heartbroken prose. I wish I could understand them, to piece them together. But they are as confusing as the constellations in the sky. Large clusters of them, silver and twinkling golds. Nebulas far, far away. I can only imagine what it is like up there, in the vast ebony skies. What it would be like among the stars, falling, falling. Beneath the starlit night, I wander. Each step, takes me an eternity, for I stop, dip my head and inhale the dry earth beneath my feet. I continue this, until I am in the middle of the meadow. Hollow eyes then reverting to the sky, blinking thrice, then closing my eyes and picturing the ebony skies. It had been dark, ever so dark. Screams, furious, deafening screams. I shiver, the only memory is pain, and it pulses in my deep scars — still healing, grateful for Wichita’s aid, they would probably be far worse. The worse ones are on my side, parallel against my ribcage. They had been bone deep, and I could feel the sinew bend and bow with every movement. The skin had started to cover it, but it was still salmon pink and sore. That went for my others. Each one had a tale, I wish I could tell. But everything is blank, everything is lost, and this irks me so. There’s a coldness inside of me, like ice embedding itself into my joints, freezing me in place. I stand there for hours, until the witching hour strikes. Even the stars disappear from the ebony heavens and leave nothing but a slither of silver moon. My creamy locks, knotted with burrs and thorns, fall in cascades of dreadlocks over my scarred neck. But I do not move. I watch, hollow eyes staring out into the night. The dull ache in my feet, my tendons, does not will me to shift. Nothing does. I stay there, immobile and watchful. As if now part of the landscape. Up in the trees, the heavy boughs of summer leaves, I hear the caw of birds. They call and someone answers. I do the same, my call, it pierces the foreboding night, with an urgency that goes heart deep. I do this, over and over and yet nothing returns, no one answers. I am alone, as alone as my body feels, as my mind is empty. Oh, what it feels to be alone, truly alone How much heartache we can take, Without hanging from the tallest tree? - resident of the gates -