07-24-2018, 09:31 PM
[align=center][div style="borderwidth=0px; width: 55%; line-height:115%; text-align: justify;font-family: calibri;"]There was a stark contrast between what counted as visions, what counted as memories, and the thin line between them that made it almost impossible to tell which was which. Others had the virtue of knowing what was real and what wasn't, of what had passed and what was still present, but Myliu never had that chance. Everything was real to the boy, as real as the memories were to those like Bastille and as real as the air he breathed and the ground he walked on. Half of them were memories, although this was not something the child knew, and the other half was nothing but an illusion, brought forward by his mind for reasons that were beyond anyone's comprehension and far too difficult to solve. Everything he looked at was real, even if others didn't see it, and although others could convince themselves that something was fake... Myliu could not.
It was his state of being, and the voices and symbols and faces that hovered in the air, the fires that occasionally burned everything and made his eyes and lungs burn from lack of oxygen, the waters that cascaded down upon him and drowned everything and everyone until nothing was real... it was all real to him and would always be, but he lived with it like it was normal, like it was nothing. For him it wasn't. For him it was reality.
For others, delving into the past was a clear contrast between the two: the mindspace and actuality.
But Myliu had no way of knowing that. Myliu could do nothing but watch as the world turned around him, as people hustled around and faces melted into other faces, indiscernible from each other until it was a massive crowd of nothingness. The dead and the living both fought inside of his brain, and in some childish world he was convinced that the skull on his head helped him differentiate them all from one another, helped him focus and determine who it was that wanted to kill him.
Bastille was among the ones who he believed had no ill intentions against the child. He was safe, if wary, ground for Myliu. He didn't know just how similar they might have been, at least at that very moment, but he knew that the leader's voice had drawn his attention, although he knew naught what the man had said. He sounded tired... anxious, maybe? Myliu had never been good at discerning emotion, and this time it was no different, but he still cautiously approached to peer at him and try to understand.
"Help?" it seemed that everyone knew that word, and everyone always responded positively to it. Maybe Batille needed help? It was worth a try to offer it.
It was his state of being, and the voices and symbols and faces that hovered in the air, the fires that occasionally burned everything and made his eyes and lungs burn from lack of oxygen, the waters that cascaded down upon him and drowned everything and everyone until nothing was real... it was all real to him and would always be, but he lived with it like it was normal, like it was nothing. For him it wasn't. For him it was reality.
For others, delving into the past was a clear contrast between the two: the mindspace and actuality.
But Myliu had no way of knowing that. Myliu could do nothing but watch as the world turned around him, as people hustled around and faces melted into other faces, indiscernible from each other until it was a massive crowd of nothingness. The dead and the living both fought inside of his brain, and in some childish world he was convinced that the skull on his head helped him differentiate them all from one another, helped him focus and determine who it was that wanted to kill him.
Bastille was among the ones who he believed had no ill intentions against the child. He was safe, if wary, ground for Myliu. He didn't know just how similar they might have been, at least at that very moment, but he knew that the leader's voice had drawn his attention, although he knew naught what the man had said. He sounded tired... anxious, maybe? Myliu had never been good at discerning emotion, and this time it was no different, but he still cautiously approached to peer at him and try to understand.
"Help?" it seemed that everyone knew that word, and everyone always responded positively to it. Maybe Batille needed help? It was worth a try to offer it.
♔ — I want brimstone in my garden