How bizarre it is, to exist at all—but especially to exist in a world that must change and change and change lest it crumble at its seams. How strange, this world, that might tumble over and over into nothingness if it does not chase the chaos beating constantly at its center. How odd to not know that all worlds exist within their own chaos, to only know this one, to only know this.
Nothing is permanent, that is certain.
Claudius believed he had learned that lesson already, once when his heart was more fickle—more brittle. When he chased dreams like they were butterflies on paper thin wings, eyes as wide and as vast as the blue sky above him, he learned how little the universe cared for beating hearts.
He has not always known himself to be wise, but in recent years he thought himself to be somewhat of a philosopher (though never has he mused aloud to another, that seething pride only philosophers carry). Such wisdom means nothing in the face of random. He knows that now, standing upon the shores of the Ruins. The pale periwinkle of his eyes glitters with the reflection of the night sky so serene above him.
The last time he stood upon these ruined shores, he told a star-kissed stranger of his beloved Tephra. All her embraces and sweet scents. He thinks of Areane now—though mostly he wishes to be beneath these same stars while above the lush grass of Tephra. Willing that ache away, Claudius remains statuesque, a light spring breeze moving pieces of his mane.
@Colby