[size=9pt]The world's different upside down. Not as in everything's the opposite way up, or like the sky is green and the ground is blue, but like-- It feels different. Foggy. Blurred. Easier to understand.
Or maybe the blood is going to his head. Yeah. That's probably it. He's been sprawled out on his back on top of a flat rock for the past ten, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes - he doesn't fuckin' know - with his head hanging off the edge, staring into the distance with glassy eyes. Drifting. Letting things be. It's easier to do when he feels like he's about to black out. The thundering of his heart slows down and his throat doesn't feel so tight anymore-- probably because he's distracted by how swollen his head feels, but, you know, it doesn't matter. At least he can breathe.
It's a pretty fucking dark realization, that he's been having problems doing the one thing his body was built for doing, lately, and maybe he should stop for a moment, sit up and think about it-- about what's going on with him, why he's freaking out so entirely and dealing with it so badly, but then a cat with a box on its head walks into his line of sight and that's a good excuse to leave the whole internal therapy session 'till another time, right?
With a foggy mind, it takes him a few moments to call out. He's feeling a bit slow, today.
"Ren." He says, but it comes out quiet because apparently he's forgotten how to work his body, so he tries again. "Ren!" Great. Good job, Moon. Half way there. "Whaf are nyini--" No, that's not right. Take two. "What... carry you." Nailed it.
Or maybe the blood is going to his head. Yeah. That's probably it. He's been sprawled out on his back on top of a flat rock for the past ten, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes - he doesn't fuckin' know - with his head hanging off the edge, staring into the distance with glassy eyes. Drifting. Letting things be. It's easier to do when he feels like he's about to black out. The thundering of his heart slows down and his throat doesn't feel so tight anymore-- probably because he's distracted by how swollen his head feels, but, you know, it doesn't matter. At least he can breathe.
It's a pretty fucking dark realization, that he's been having problems doing the one thing his body was built for doing, lately, and maybe he should stop for a moment, sit up and think about it-- about what's going on with him, why he's freaking out so entirely and dealing with it so badly, but then a cat with a box on its head walks into his line of sight and that's a good excuse to leave the whole internal therapy session 'till another time, right?
With a foggy mind, it takes him a few moments to call out. He's feeling a bit slow, today.
"Ren." He says, but it comes out quiet because apparently he's forgotten how to work his body, so he tries again. "Ren!" Great. Good job, Moon. Half way there. "Whaf are nyini--" No, that's not right. Take two. "What... carry you." Nailed it.
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; height: auto; text-align: center; font-family: ; font-size: 9pt; color: COLOR; letter-spacing: -.5px;"][i][b]and die like a hero going home.[glow=black,2,300]