The water comforts her as she cries.
Foreign. Familiar. Alien. Intrinsic. Her paradoxical relationship to reality, embodied: there, against the alabaster of her cheek and scampering down to the pink of her nose, the tears. Warm, salty, sticky, droplets of pure heart that wash away with the running water she submerges herself in. Chest high where for others it may only reach knees. Oh, she thought; Oh, to live.
The warm light of frozen day dapples her skin from above. Deep in her chest, a roiling angst grows, one that demands its voice heard and heeds no caution, one that stems from the mortal nature of her existence, here, so unlike the ways in which she existed before (everything, nothing). Here, in the privacy of her own making, Lillia makes room for the existentialism to spew from her, overcome by a feeling even her body cannot place as familiar.
A darkness, a coldness. An aloneness that sits in her chest, unmovable, that begs for something, anything, to satiate its desire for... what? Connection? Lillia struggles to evoke in her mind an understanding of the visceral thing which neither she, in spirit, nor she, in body, could hope to unravel. No amount of angelic assurance in her belongingness to the universe can save her from this.
Whatever this is, she sniffs.
Dejected and uncentered, Lillia releases her grasp on time.
@Moira
Foreign. Familiar. Alien. Intrinsic. Her paradoxical relationship to reality, embodied: there, against the alabaster of her cheek and scampering down to the pink of her nose, the tears. Warm, salty, sticky, droplets of pure heart that wash away with the running water she submerges herself in. Chest high where for others it may only reach knees. Oh, she thought; Oh, to live.
The warm light of frozen day dapples her skin from above. Deep in her chest, a roiling angst grows, one that demands its voice heard and heeds no caution, one that stems from the mortal nature of her existence, here, so unlike the ways in which she existed before (everything, nothing). Here, in the privacy of her own making, Lillia makes room for the existentialism to spew from her, overcome by a feeling even her body cannot place as familiar.
A darkness, a coldness. An aloneness that sits in her chest, unmovable, that begs for something, anything, to satiate its desire for... what? Connection? Lillia struggles to evoke in her mind an understanding of the visceral thing which neither she, in spirit, nor she, in body, could hope to unravel. No amount of angelic assurance in her belongingness to the universe can save her from this.
Whatever this is, she sniffs.
Dejected and uncentered, Lillia releases her grasp on time.
@Moira