06-04-2020, 10:13 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Cormorant Garamond' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'><style type="text/css"> .anonya_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background-color: #E4E7E0; width: 600px; border: solid 1px #000;} .anonya_image { position: relative; z-index: 2; width: 600px; } .anonya_table { position: relative; z-index: 3; width: 580px; border: solid 1px #000; margin-top: 70px; margin-bottom: -1px; background-color: #B6C4C5; opacity: 0.5;} .anonya_message {position: relative; z-index: 4; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #000; padding: 15px 10px 15px 10px;} .anonya_name { position: absolute; z-index: 5; font: 35px 'Cormorant Garamond', serif; color: #382135; bottom: -5px; right: 410px; opacity: 0.8; letter-spacing: 7px;} .anonya_quote1 { position: absolute; z-index: 6; font: 13px 'Times', serif; color: #000; opacity: 0.8; top: 40px; right: 130px; letter-spacing: 2px;} .anonya_quote2 { position: absolute; z-index: 7; font: 13px 'Times', serif; color: #000; opacity: 0.8; bottom: 320px; right: 165px; letter-spacing: 2px;}</style><center><div class="anonya_container"><div class="anonya_quote1"><I>(when you're dreaming with a broken heart)</I></div><div class="anonya_table"><div class="anonya_message"> She is alone, as she has been since she came back.
At the edge of an empty meadow, some place hidden away from the rest of the population, unable to bring herself to forge any kind of connection. A useless thing, when every connection she’s ever had simply breaks.
She used to be beautiful, or at least that is what they used to tell her. The kind of beauty that radiated from her core, the kind that reached her eyes and spread in her veins. Someone called her <i>wildflower</i> once, but she can’t seem to recall his name, and hardly his face. She is nothing like a flower anymore. She is still pretty, but she is not beautiful. She is broken, her heart tattered and frayed, and there is a weariness in her bones that she doesn’t think will ever leave.
When the earth begins to faintly rumble she only assumes it is the afterlife coming back to claim her – and she can’t find it in herself to care. She has built herself from nothing too many times, and maybe eventually some things are just not meant to be (like happiness, or even anything beyond this apathetic existence she can’t seem to out run).
But on the wind there comes dust, and though she tucks her chin to her chest against the sting of it, closes her eyes as it swirls around her, she does not move. Wildflowers begin to blossom and bloom, tangled in her white mane, twisting and entwined in the long tendrils of her tail. Vibrant colors and all shapes and sizes, so stark against the porcelain of her.
The dust settles and the flowers do too, and there is a moment where she almost feels like she could have smiled.</div></div><div class="anonya_quote2"><I>(the waking up is the hardest part)</I></div><div class="anonya_name">ANONYA</div><img class="anonya_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/3x2CCTW9/anonya.png"></div></center>
Anonya is claiming flowers, thank you!
At the edge of an empty meadow, some place hidden away from the rest of the population, unable to bring herself to forge any kind of connection. A useless thing, when every connection she’s ever had simply breaks.
She used to be beautiful, or at least that is what they used to tell her. The kind of beauty that radiated from her core, the kind that reached her eyes and spread in her veins. Someone called her <i>wildflower</i> once, but she can’t seem to recall his name, and hardly his face. She is nothing like a flower anymore. She is still pretty, but she is not beautiful. She is broken, her heart tattered and frayed, and there is a weariness in her bones that she doesn’t think will ever leave.
When the earth begins to faintly rumble she only assumes it is the afterlife coming back to claim her – and she can’t find it in herself to care. She has built herself from nothing too many times, and maybe eventually some things are just not meant to be (like happiness, or even anything beyond this apathetic existence she can’t seem to out run).
But on the wind there comes dust, and though she tucks her chin to her chest against the sting of it, closes her eyes as it swirls around her, she does not move. Wildflowers begin to blossom and bloom, tangled in her white mane, twisting and entwined in the long tendrils of her tail. Vibrant colors and all shapes and sizes, so stark against the porcelain of her.
The dust settles and the flowers do too, and there is a moment where she almost feels like she could have smiled.</div></div><div class="anonya_quote2"><I>(the waking up is the hardest part)</I></div><div class="anonya_name">ANONYA</div><img class="anonya_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/3x2CCTW9/anonya.png"></div></center>
Anonya is claiming flowers, thank you!