THINKING OF YOU IS A POISON I DRINK OFTEN
Had he known she felt his thickness in coat a blessing, Dalten likely would have scoffed. He dreaded the minute his coat began to grow, feeling the heat already linger on his skin while the evolution-made insulation clung to every warm particle to touch his skin.
Blah, the weight, the warmth, the awkward shedding stage come spring. All of it, he could kindly do without.
He too finds comfort in the rushing water and simplistic flow of rivers. Nothing challenging to them other than smoothing the surfaces of rough rocks, buffing away harsh edges and points, only to be cast over a plummeting cliffs edge to bathe in a glorifying bath at the bottom. As if their only lesson is to take away resistance. He had played like water before, pretended to have some sort of power in taking away the harsh edges and points on those he loved most. Figuring out a way to buff the problems out, as if his life could be as simplistic as the hastening river.
I am a mess.
So am I, can't you see?
Alas, he is no such force. Dalten has no hidden talents or gifts, he cannot change or mold. He can cover and band aid, but even the best glue gives way eventually.
Oh, the woman.
He is unsure if she has noticed his mental absence, though he isn’t awfully worried either. If she had stayed long enough for him to come to, then it couldn’t have been long at all. And, in all fairness, she did interrupt him.
“No, it cannot be all that bad,” the smallest of sarcasm creeps into his tone, though he quickly pushes it back into the shadowy hole it emerged from. He couldn’t afford to be emotionally available, not anymore. “Wouldn’t you say though, that sometimes it does feel good to pretend it is, just to cope?”
Do you think I am beautiful?
I do.
There is more truth to his words than he intends, more so because he is far better at festering than distinguishing. His grief never really came out through the other tunnel, not before. It always lead him to the deepest point of the cave before leaving him to hopefully eventually find his way out, like his mind is a never ending trap of dark tunnels and caverns with no real light or guidance. He preferred it this way, perhaps because it’s all he knew or maybe because finding the light meant leaving the darkness he had grown used to for so long.
“Rivers are for wallowing pity. You must know this, why else could you be here?” He is able to find humour buried deep into a file in his brain most likely labelled for redirection in conversation, use here, remembering that most minds carry their own baggage, and what point would it serve to focus on him.
@[lilliana]