12-27-2015, 08:38 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-31-2015, 12:06 PM by Corruption.)
But I won't rot, I won't rot. Not this mind and not this heart.
It was an unrelenting and lonely flight. Aside his battery of blackbirds, he had spent much of life above the world in clouds as heavy and oppressive as a storm. Whether darkened by discontent or lit ablaze with orangey-pinks, he has come to enjoy the daring inconsistency of the sky. What lies in the cirrus and sunlit lines read something like home. Something like safety and a solitude most unsettling and pensive. What lies there is the enormous absence of sadness. There is no room for memory and pain in the giant endlessness. There is only this: the steady movement of wings, the tireless thrum of of his heart in the silence, the well acclimated ease of breath.
His constant brotherhood of blackbirds that ride the cruel swells of wind. They are relentless in their pursuit of something simple and instinctual. Following a path, yet seen by their own eyes, but mapped out in the molecular level of their existence. Migration. He is their commandant, their stalwart defender. In his shadow they find solace — something protective and violently loyal. He is glad for their faith in him. Quietly pleased for something to hold under his wing, though they lack the substance of size and warmth... and colour. And brightness of character, the telling turn in their features and eyes. And smell.
They lack the beautifully familiar smell. Like rain, dirt and hair.
But he is not so young. Though remarkably robust, the age tells in the silvery hairs around his eyes and nose; the sprinkle of grey in his feathers. He has lived a life without limits — an eternity of space to occupy. But the the big, black stallion is approaching summit. What drives it is his mortality, what lies beyond is his finality. When in motion, blood feeds his wings with youthful vigor. But they whine at night when he curls up around the roots of a roosting tree. They plead, with a pulse and an ache, for an interlude. For the legs to bear the enormous weight of the man. He cannot ignore them forever.
In his dream, he plummets from the sky, reeling and spiraling as if his wings are broken. But they are not, they are simply unresponsive. The spiky tops of pine trees race towards him. Deep green darkness. He inhales sharply, dark eyes snapping open. He never sleeps well when he has to stay here — too many things at haunt. But he has found himself not roaming the above too far away. For a few days straight, returning to tuck himself under the leaf-bare canopy in this sickly familiar place. His flock is long gone on their short migration somewhere warmer, somewhere he knows well. He has conceded, not to stay a-ground, but to wait for them a while. Resident birds keep him company in their absence, but they are poor replacements. The black stallion heaves up with some stiffness, shaking out his massive black wings, and sending off small squalls of snow into the frigid air.
Here, he knows, he once sheltered someone from a summer storm with them. That, in the end, he believes is what they were truly engineered to do. It had been so natural...
Corruption brings the left up a bit and arches his massive head to lip at the individual feathers, preening them with his teeth gently. Above, the night sky is adorned with stars, cloudless and cold. Endless and welcoming.
His constant brotherhood of blackbirds that ride the cruel swells of wind. They are relentless in their pursuit of something simple and instinctual. Following a path, yet seen by their own eyes, but mapped out in the molecular level of their existence. Migration. He is their commandant, their stalwart defender. In his shadow they find solace — something protective and violently loyal. He is glad for their faith in him. Quietly pleased for something to hold under his wing, though they lack the substance of size and warmth... and colour. And brightness of character, the telling turn in their features and eyes. And smell.
They lack the beautifully familiar smell. Like rain, dirt and hair.
But he is not so young. Though remarkably robust, the age tells in the silvery hairs around his eyes and nose; the sprinkle of grey in his feathers. He has lived a life without limits — an eternity of space to occupy. But the the big, black stallion is approaching summit. What drives it is his mortality, what lies beyond is his finality. When in motion, blood feeds his wings with youthful vigor. But they whine at night when he curls up around the roots of a roosting tree. They plead, with a pulse and an ache, for an interlude. For the legs to bear the enormous weight of the man. He cannot ignore them forever.
In his dream, he plummets from the sky, reeling and spiraling as if his wings are broken. But they are not, they are simply unresponsive. The spiky tops of pine trees race towards him. Deep green darkness. He inhales sharply, dark eyes snapping open. He never sleeps well when he has to stay here — too many things at haunt. But he has found himself not roaming the above too far away. For a few days straight, returning to tuck himself under the leaf-bare canopy in this sickly familiar place. His flock is long gone on their short migration somewhere warmer, somewhere he knows well. He has conceded, not to stay a-ground, but to wait for them a while. Resident birds keep him company in their absence, but they are poor replacements. The black stallion heaves up with some stiffness, shaking out his massive black wings, and sending off small squalls of snow into the frigid air.
Here, he knows, he once sheltered someone from a summer storm with them. That, in the end, he believes is what they were truly engineered to do. It had been so natural...
Corruption brings the left up a bit and arches his massive head to lip at the individual feathers, preening them with his teeth gently. Above, the night sky is adorned with stars, cloudless and cold. Endless and welcoming.
I won't rot.