01-27-2021, 03:38 PM
_______________________________
I am so tired of being alone.
The melancholy fills my chest just as persistently as the darkness that fills Beqanna’s nooks and crannies. I no longer have any sense of whether it is night or day, nor can I find it in myself to care anymore. In the beginning, I yearned for the quiet, creeping pink of sunset, the trill of birdsong greeting the day. It was not long, though, before I came to the conclusion that those soft wishes are just as worthless as my hope that the grasping fingers of my past will fully relinquish their hold on me.
It is easy enough to forget the silver scars that pock my skin, my moth-eaten hide stretched over an angular frame. Reflections, at the odd times that I do find myself at some lake’s edge, are nil these days. It’s easy enough to tell myself that the demon has forgotten me, this dirty plaything cast aside. But telling is not believing and I know that he is out there yet, somewhere nearby. The shadows are his minions and now that they rule supreme, - or, perhaps second only to the hellish creatures released into our world - escape in its truest form seems entirely out of reach.
Water drips from my chin, my thirst sated for the time being, my belly full of water and little else. With spring comes tender, young shoots to graze on, but I find myself browsing listlessly through the tangle of old and new without actually picking anything. I keep to the Field in the hopes that he will not look for me here, but it is its outskirts that I know best, avoiding the quiet murmurs of strangers and the unfamiliar powers that my magic cannot help but imitate on the occasion that one gets too close.
The melancholy fills my chest just as persistently as the darkness that fills Beqanna’s nooks and crannies. I no longer have any sense of whether it is night or day, nor can I find it in myself to care anymore. In the beginning, I yearned for the quiet, creeping pink of sunset, the trill of birdsong greeting the day. It was not long, though, before I came to the conclusion that those soft wishes are just as worthless as my hope that the grasping fingers of my past will fully relinquish their hold on me.
It is easy enough to forget the silver scars that pock my skin, my moth-eaten hide stretched over an angular frame. Reflections, at the odd times that I do find myself at some lake’s edge, are nil these days. It’s easy enough to tell myself that the demon has forgotten me, this dirty plaything cast aside. But telling is not believing and I know that he is out there yet, somewhere nearby. The shadows are his minions and now that they rule supreme, - or, perhaps second only to the hellish creatures released into our world - escape in its truest form seems entirely out of reach.
Water drips from my chin, my thirst sated for the time being, my belly full of water and little else. With spring comes tender, young shoots to graze on, but I find myself browsing listlessly through the tangle of old and new without actually picking anything. I keep to the Field in the hopes that he will not look for me here, but it is its outskirts that I know best, avoiding the quiet murmurs of strangers and the unfamiliar powers that my magic cannot help but imitate on the occasion that one gets too close.
