08-22-2021, 12:17 PM
What would it mean to be a dream?
Perhaps they are both dreaming.
Perhaps someday she, too, will wake to find that she is free and the wings that lie heavy and useless against her sides, that weigh her down in the depths, are meant for more than burdening her with the knowledge that she will never be able to put them to use.
In the waking world she could have convinced herself that the tears in the fawn’s eyes were a mere trick of the light, but there is hardly any light at all here save for the soft glow they both emit. It is no trick of the light and she swims closer still, careful not to disturb the flowers. Close enough to lay her chin on the soft earth, close enough that she might lend the fawn-fox-filly some comfort.
“I’m here,” she whispers. “As long as you’re here, I’m here.”
A strange thing to say, no doubt. A thing that neither confirms nor denies her existence. But she thinks it’d be all right if she only existed in Sickle’s mind. Even if it’s lonely. (And she is so terribly lonely.)
The flowers.
The nymph turns her attention from the edge of the pond, back to the flowers, and smiles. They are unlike anything she has ever seen. She had been born someplace dark and then marched into the darkness. These colors are rich, vibrant. They are the color of real things. She reaches out to gently touch them.
She means to thank her friend for this gift and the way that it has reawakened something in her heart (which has begun to turn to stone, she thinks), but something else comes out when she opens her mouth.
“What is a jungle?”
Perhaps they are both dreaming.
Perhaps someday she, too, will wake to find that she is free and the wings that lie heavy and useless against her sides, that weigh her down in the depths, are meant for more than burdening her with the knowledge that she will never be able to put them to use.
In the waking world she could have convinced herself that the tears in the fawn’s eyes were a mere trick of the light, but there is hardly any light at all here save for the soft glow they both emit. It is no trick of the light and she swims closer still, careful not to disturb the flowers. Close enough to lay her chin on the soft earth, close enough that she might lend the fawn-fox-filly some comfort.
“I’m here,” she whispers. “As long as you’re here, I’m here.”
A strange thing to say, no doubt. A thing that neither confirms nor denies her existence. But she thinks it’d be all right if she only existed in Sickle’s mind. Even if it’s lonely. (And she is so terribly lonely.)
The flowers.
The nymph turns her attention from the edge of the pond, back to the flowers, and smiles. They are unlike anything she has ever seen. She had been born someplace dark and then marched into the darkness. These colors are rich, vibrant. They are the color of real things. She reaches out to gently touch them.
She means to thank her friend for this gift and the way that it has reawakened something in her heart (which has begun to turn to stone, she thinks), but something else comes out when she opens her mouth.
“What is a jungle?”
Drops of dew from their hair
@Sickle