08-11-2016, 10:41 AM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
Is it not such a shame that as we grow, we lose our innocence? Your freedom now seems like such a solid thing; something you know will always be there (as long as mummy and daddy aren’t looking). Your freedom is a thing of knowledge – you know that as soon as mother lays down to rest, or father is off seeking places to graze, that you will have your freedom. You will have your time to cavort about, play acting as an adult, reveling in the glory and mischief of your ways. You have those delicious moments of independence to always look forward to. To explore the Valley, to delight in earrth’s precious gifts, to alight upon new strangers. You have the ever glowing innocence that these succulent steal away’s will always be there for you.
Will your heart break when you grow and realize that these moments of ‘freedom’ constitute most of your passing time? That when your legs grow long, and your bosom fills out, and the twinkling of your voice turns a bit deeper – that the freedom you know now will actually be tinged with chains. The chains of love and life and rulers and light and dark – there are too many shackles that will weigh on your soul. So take it – run with it, my little poison child – enjoy the blissful ignorance before true freedom weighs down on your soul.
You are matter of fact in your response – as if you know any moment, mother or father would round the corner, calling your name into the echoes of the Valley. There is no fear in your voice – and perhaps that is something that Eight has enabled, along with your freedom. Why, you are such a small girl, the Valley is all the world you have seen, and seen safely. Here inside Her walls, there is no need to fret or worry. You are in a womb filtered with magic, a place where (at the moment) the worst thing to happen would be a bump or a bruise, or a finicky bout with a fox. There is no fear here, no worry (for your little mind, at least). You are assured in your safety, in the knowledge that no harmful stranger could pass through the walls of the Valley – certain, somehow, that even this monstrous man before you means you no harm.
You step forward, nose as soft and small as a fist of ferns bumping against his wing. The pain rifles through his wing, a stark reminder of the cost it takes to protect these lands, protect you, but no cry peels from his mouth. Although the pain may be great, the taste of victory bubbling inside his mouth is sweeter. How many wings have you seen? How many different textures and colors and markings have you spotted with your keen little eyes? Do they fly differently – perhaps one would never know. Perhaps the strength of flight is inside the heart of the winged one.
“And what are you doing so far from them?”
Your question queries as more of a statement – as if you already knew that the man before you was held responsible for why your parents weren’t quite that worried when you wandered. For why the wolves never lurked towards you, and that there was never a thunderstorm ahead while you were traveling alone. Somehow your fear of the towering, traited stallion before you paled when compared with the taste of freedom that was so luscious in your mind.
A huff of air was forced through Eight’s nostrils, a half laugh if you will - “Yeah, you could call me that.” He turns, walking a few paces towards the edge of the treeline, into the forests of the Valley. “You could call me Eight, too.” He calls back to you, chucking his head toward the direction of the forest.
Will your heart break when you grow and realize that these moments of ‘freedom’ constitute most of your passing time? That when your legs grow long, and your bosom fills out, and the twinkling of your voice turns a bit deeper – that the freedom you know now will actually be tinged with chains. The chains of love and life and rulers and light and dark – there are too many shackles that will weigh on your soul. So take it – run with it, my little poison child – enjoy the blissful ignorance before true freedom weighs down on your soul.
You are matter of fact in your response – as if you know any moment, mother or father would round the corner, calling your name into the echoes of the Valley. There is no fear in your voice – and perhaps that is something that Eight has enabled, along with your freedom. Why, you are such a small girl, the Valley is all the world you have seen, and seen safely. Here inside Her walls, there is no need to fret or worry. You are in a womb filtered with magic, a place where (at the moment) the worst thing to happen would be a bump or a bruise, or a finicky bout with a fox. There is no fear here, no worry (for your little mind, at least). You are assured in your safety, in the knowledge that no harmful stranger could pass through the walls of the Valley – certain, somehow, that even this monstrous man before you means you no harm.
You step forward, nose as soft and small as a fist of ferns bumping against his wing. The pain rifles through his wing, a stark reminder of the cost it takes to protect these lands, protect you, but no cry peels from his mouth. Although the pain may be great, the taste of victory bubbling inside his mouth is sweeter. How many wings have you seen? How many different textures and colors and markings have you spotted with your keen little eyes? Do they fly differently – perhaps one would never know. Perhaps the strength of flight is inside the heart of the winged one.
“And what are you doing so far from them?”
Your question queries as more of a statement – as if you already knew that the man before you was held responsible for why your parents weren’t quite that worried when you wandered. For why the wolves never lurked towards you, and that there was never a thunderstorm ahead while you were traveling alone. Somehow your fear of the towering, traited stallion before you paled when compared with the taste of freedom that was so luscious in your mind.
A huff of air was forced through Eight’s nostrils, a half laugh if you will - “Yeah, you could call me that.” He turns, walking a few paces towards the edge of the treeline, into the forests of the Valley. “You could call me Eight, too.” He calls back to you, chucking his head toward the direction of the forest.
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in