I should have loved a thunderbird instead
at least when spring comes they roar back again
His wanderings are relentless these days.
Something drives him forward that he doesn’t understand. Something constant churning in his gut that keeps him from sleep and leaves him restless and aching—his feet always moving, his illusions becoming more and more elaborate until he feels like he could lose himself in them entirely. He withdraws even more from the outside world because it is easier to become trapped in his own head. It is easier to find himself in the stars that he brings down to the earth, to the oceans he paints around him, to the fantastical worlds that he continues to craft with more and more fervor—until reality completely drops away.
This evening is no different.
He is exhausted, but he doesn’t recognize it as such. The fatigue sinks into his bones but he continues to walk, his body growing more and more mature, his amethyst hooves heavy with each step. Around him, he paints worlds that don’t exist. The trees grow wild with moss crawling up their inky bark and draping from their low hanging branches. Vines rope around the base and hang amongst them so real that he dips his antlered head as he walks, certain that he would brush up against them—that they would feel true.
Beneath his feet, water runs as though the entire forest had been flooded although it is not high enough to reach his pastern and the wind smells sweet. He smiles, picking out the fruit and the blossoms that sprinkle this forest of his own creation and it’s only when he catches the sound of something distinctly not of his own creation that he twists his head. He sees her and pauses, a frown crossing his features for a moment—a twinge of knowing that does not rise to his consciousness—before it fades.
He falls still, glowing lightly as he watches her with an infinite well of curiosity.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
@[Reia] >:]