opals and onions; insignificance

[americus]

Summer gets under her skin like a thorn. It produces an itch, the likes of which she cannot seem to dislodge. This itch, she decided, was worse than the flies that buzzed about her skin. Those she could dislodge with a flick of her tail in a careless manner that meant she gave the flies no more thought than a simple brainless impulse to flick her tail at them. When had she become this apathetic? It had happened long before the first of three foals had slid from her loins in the agonized throes of birth. She had given little thought to each of them, one colt and two fillies. The first had been a strange sort, full of magic that she shied from and thus, left the colt with her own dam to raise up. Same with the first filly because she could float off the ground in a most unnerving manner. Then again, she should not have been so surprised. Her dam lived far longer than a mare had a right to live and there had been something about each of the stallions she had danced the long dance with. But sometime after the last suckled from her and she cast it off to feed on the grass, she had become this - apathetic and at times, she could think only of the first friend she’d made, that mare of nondescript brown that seemed as beautiful as mud on a riverbank. Insignificance. The name came to her just as the wind blew the forelock off her face and she turned into it, letting the wind blow against her skin and felt her nostrils widen to suck in the many scents. None of them seemed familiar. Not at first. Then one teased at her memory - at her mind, and that name came to her again: Insignificance. Despite her apathetic state, she had never forgotten that name or the brown mare that bore it. Or how fast they had become friends. The red dun overo meandered (because really, she did little else but amble and shuffle and all the things to describe a slow walk) towards the river, intent upon a drink but also intent upon sussing out the source of the scent that teased her old brain with its familiarity.

@[Insignificance]

[Insignificance]

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Time is a peculiar thing. In our darkest hours is stretches taut like skin on old bones, but when we fly on euphoria it is snatched from us in the blink of an eye. I have wielded my time with a carelessness that is unbefitting of any creature wanting to make something of themselves. There is no tales to adorn my name, no-one to remember my sad existence save for the lark singing in the tree and the rivers I followed on my journeys. There had been, once, but those days are long forgotten. Once, even I had been a young girl with fleeting smiles and with the indecision of youth tucked to my heart. Besotted with the world. But nowadays I am but a haggard shard of that girl – hollow-eyed and broken and old. But there is still that morsel of curiosity in the dead of my eye. The one thing that time has never taken from me. I too flick a wiry tail in resentment towards the pestering flies. I too will tired muscles into motion as I unhurriedly head for the river and its promise of escape from pestering insects and relentless sun. An inhalation brings the scent of something familiar. Something that works its nails deep against my skull, like the faint thrumming of a heartbeat. I close my eyes and inhale deeper, filling my lungs with the scent, like a fine wine that graces my lips but is not swallowed. I embrace the scent but do not allow it to settle any deeper than allotted. It cannot be, not after all these years. But I move in its direction – action bleeding its fingertips into my drive and sand turns to dust beneath my hooves. And there – at the brink of the river, she stands. Americus.  She is a wilting flower – frail and with the experience of a lifetime on her brow, but a flower nonetheless. As beautiful and wild as ever and I remember, remember, remember. An intricate web of moments spent together on days like these. ”Americus” I breathe, and her name on my lips is a remedy like that of a cool breeze under the scorching sun. ”Americus” I say again – and I laugh – a broken husky sound that wore it not for the glitter-gold of mirth in my eye could have been mistaken for a sob. For the second time since I have come back to Beqanna – I am home.  "Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for." insignificance

[americus]

Americus is closer to the river now; close enough to see the sheer blue of it spread between the riverbanks like an open vein. It beckons, but not for long drinks to slake one’s thirst or for lazy swims to cool the skin. It beckons in blue flashes of brilliance that hurt her eyes so that she has to shut them against the river and the sunlight that bounces off of it. She’d rather close her eyes than risk staring at it and going blind. Not that it mattered much to her either way, she’d seen enough of the world to have tired of it long before she ended up back here in the familiar and the now. That’s all she feels of late - tired. Exhaustion so deep in her bones that it has replaced the marrow within. Somehow she is still capable of movement and thought but she thinks she ought not to be. Not now, not like this with the scent of someone familiar on the air to tease her old mind back to a life it hadn’t ever really known. But she could not lie to herself - there had been a zest in her bones then, enough of it anyway, in the brown mare’s company. The scent teases her, tries to muster more from her - enough to open her eyes to that dazzle of sunlight blue before her that sparkles. Sparkles were never hers. Not bits of whimsy and imagination. Not even in the innocence of childhood that her mother tried to provide her as best as that wayward mare could have. Somehow, she had stepped wrong and become this creature haggard of heart and bone-weary except for that singular bright spot in her life when she’d met Insignificance. The bond of blandness perhaps had been the thing that made them look upon one another in instant recognition and Americus can summon that moment with a rare fondness that fills her heart until the surge of the blue river in her ears drowns out the thump of that meaty muscle. Time, she thinks, is not kind enough to restore that to me. To give her back to me;  but that smell! It lingers. Seems to fester in her nostrils until it overpowers the smell of silt and river and at last, Americus turns her head and lo! She is there! Tall and lean, the same as ever and disbelief if the first emotion to find the mare’s face. She cannot believe her ears either! Betrayers that take in the sound of her name borne on a breath and later, a laugh that sounds broken and part-sob of what might have been relief. Time is not this kind to them. It cannot be! But her nose acts separate from rational thought - some other signal relayed through synapse and nerve that makes her nose move independent of Americus. Out it reaches, for a sniff that proves it to be thus - this is her, returned and thus, resplendent! Her mouth nudges open just a bit to allow one croak of a word to escape it, “Insignificance.” and there is so much more to it than being just a name. It is a hallowed affirmation of affirmation of a friendship that has stood the test of time. Belief and relief mingle on her face, smooth over some of the sharper edges found there. Smooth it just enough for a smile to rise to the surface and the sparkles on the top of the river seem to enter her eyes. “Insignificance.” she murmurs again, just to say it - just to confirm it.

[Insignificance]

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Old. We have both become old. It is the first thing that comes to my mind as I stare at her, and I am overwhelmed with this new revelation. It should not come as a surprise, the years have been snatched away from under my nose by the cunning thief that is time. I have spent a near lifetime wandering -and I am both restless and weary, between two homes, and living in a third, melancholy and seemingly powerless.  I shift, dodging the feeble rays of light, that the setting sun casts, to keep a hold on the world - in vain. I try to keep my breath rhythmic, I will my wildly beating heart into calmness and I would nip the hairs of my shoulder if I could - if only to reassure myself that the apparition that is Americus is in fact real and not a trick of a broken, tired mind. But my name on her lips hold the sweet tang of familiarity. Home, home, home My memories press close, and my regrets - closer. My heart beats erratically and I shake my blunt head to rid myself of reminiscing. I grow impatient with my regrets. I grow impatient with my past. The foggy unknown of my future. The present is where I belong, with this rare, precious gift fate has bestowed upon me. Here, at the end of my journey. A fairer fate I would not dream of. My mud-brown muzzle is pressed gently against her shoulder, reveling in the scent of her. The scent of familiarity and security and laughter in rain. In quiet nights spent only in the wake of stars. Hers is the scent of summer. Of wildflowers and nettles and burrs and a thousand other mundane things that I once held so precious. Is this what time has saved for me? A short respite from loneliness and harsh travels - to spend my last days in the company of my oldest friend. There are so many things I would like to tell her, so many questions to ask - but I don´t. Content for now to just linger by her side, we still have time, age may have caught up with us. But I am not about to throw it in just yet. "You are still here" I mumble into the sleek fur of that shoulder. What I want to say is I won´t leave you ever again. insignificance