01-20-2020, 07:59 PM
A pedipalp swept up, then down, brushing dust off his eyes. He was still, in careful contemplation, focus, easily disturbed. Meditation, some would say - and perhaps that was true. He couldn't close his eyes, but that didn't change anything, did it?
He tried to remember the exact definition. "To engage in contemplation, reflection. To focus one's thoughts on, ponder over." He could still see the words now, letters dancing in front of his eyes, taunting - instinctively, he reached up the opposite palp, brushing his eyes once more, but it did nothing to assist the feeling that flooded through him. Was it failure, he wondered? If it was, it felt different. Perhaps he should meditate some more, figure himself out.
Or perhaps he shouldn't, and instead focus on anything else. Maybe everything else.
It made him wonder, as he focused on his sense of touch, mentally blocking out his vision so as not to impair the process, what the opposite of meditation would be. What focusing on everything other than how you were feeling was. What letting the input of the world control your thoughts, flow through your body like the very blood that kept it alive. Or perhaps that, too, was a form of meditation. He certainly felt calmer now, not thinking about the elephant in the room, instead taking it all in.
The slight breeze, as it pushed against everything. The pawsteps of clan denizens, wandering around the square near which he was positioned. He could feel their breaths, too, and if he focused on each one of them, could begin to hear their heartbeats. It would've been too much if he was trying to think on top of it. It would've overloaded his mind, made him stumble around, practically as blind as he was now. And his mind wandered, and he wondered, once more - was this inevitable? Was his attunement with his sense of touch something in the works by his body for years? Was it a result of a need to 'see,' to navigate somehow, of his blindness? Or was it just chance?
Does not matter.
Or did it?
His curiosity was a powerful force, after all, and if he wanted to learn something, every cell in his body shared his want.
How could self figure that out?
That was a very good question.
So he thought.
And thought.
And the world seemed to tune itself out, all the senses going fuzzy, blurring together into one, a pseudo-tactile sensation that reminded him so strongly of -
Of being blind.
Perhaps he should save thinking for when he wasn't reverse-meditating; it didn't seem to have very good effects on him.
He shook, for a momentary second, and woke himself up from the false slumber he had appeared to be in. He needed to do something today. He had been promoted what seemed like aeons ago, he couldn't just do nothing. He had to - to - to be useful. To live. But the feeling of hundreds of different vibrations running through the ground didn't leave him, even if he actively made them feel less severe, less big, less in-his-face, and that alone made him want to keep sitting there, thinking. Just thinking.
So he began to move, and he felt the pawsteps and the wind and the talking fade away, the only feeling that of his own blood passing through his body, and the ground under his many limbs. He didn't even realize where he was, for the longest time, walking until he felt a large structure in front of him, an action that made him pause. It seemed familiar, almost. Something about the shape reminded him of...
Oh.
He was in front of the library.
He sat there, 'head' tilted up as if looking at it, though anyone who looked at him, at his once verdant eyes now drowned in white could tell that he wasn't seeing anything. And he waited, for something to happen, far too afraid to walk in, and too confused at his own body to leave.
Why had he brought himself here?
(don't bother matching if you don't feel like it lmao
except for you, stilly, bc i know you'll do it anyway)
He tried to remember the exact definition. "To engage in contemplation, reflection. To focus one's thoughts on, ponder over." He could still see the words now, letters dancing in front of his eyes, taunting - instinctively, he reached up the opposite palp, brushing his eyes once more, but it did nothing to assist the feeling that flooded through him. Was it failure, he wondered? If it was, it felt different. Perhaps he should meditate some more, figure himself out.
Or perhaps he shouldn't, and instead focus on anything else. Maybe everything else.
It made him wonder, as he focused on his sense of touch, mentally blocking out his vision so as not to impair the process, what the opposite of meditation would be. What focusing on everything other than how you were feeling was. What letting the input of the world control your thoughts, flow through your body like the very blood that kept it alive. Or perhaps that, too, was a form of meditation. He certainly felt calmer now, not thinking about the elephant in the room, instead taking it all in.
The slight breeze, as it pushed against everything. The pawsteps of clan denizens, wandering around the square near which he was positioned. He could feel their breaths, too, and if he focused on each one of them, could begin to hear their heartbeats. It would've been too much if he was trying to think on top of it. It would've overloaded his mind, made him stumble around, practically as blind as he was now. And his mind wandered, and he wondered, once more - was this inevitable? Was his attunement with his sense of touch something in the works by his body for years? Was it a result of a need to 'see,' to navigate somehow, of his blindness? Or was it just chance?
Does not matter.
Or did it?
His curiosity was a powerful force, after all, and if he wanted to learn something, every cell in his body shared his want.
How could self figure that out?
That was a very good question.
So he thought.
And thought.
And the world seemed to tune itself out, all the senses going fuzzy, blurring together into one, a pseudo-tactile sensation that reminded him so strongly of -
Of being blind.
Perhaps he should save thinking for when he wasn't reverse-meditating; it didn't seem to have very good effects on him.
He shook, for a momentary second, and woke himself up from the false slumber he had appeared to be in. He needed to do something today. He had been promoted what seemed like aeons ago, he couldn't just do nothing. He had to - to - to be useful. To live. But the feeling of hundreds of different vibrations running through the ground didn't leave him, even if he actively made them feel less severe, less big, less in-his-face, and that alone made him want to keep sitting there, thinking. Just thinking.
So he began to move, and he felt the pawsteps and the wind and the talking fade away, the only feeling that of his own blood passing through his body, and the ground under his many limbs. He didn't even realize where he was, for the longest time, walking until he felt a large structure in front of him, an action that made him pause. It seemed familiar, almost. Something about the shape reminded him of...
Oh.
He was in front of the library.
He sat there, 'head' tilted up as if looking at it, though anyone who looked at him, at his once verdant eyes now drowned in white could tell that he wasn't seeing anything. And he waited, for something to happen, far too afraid to walk in, and too confused at his own body to leave.
Why had he brought himself here?
(don't bother matching if you don't feel like it lmao
except for you, stilly, bc i know you'll do it anyway)
tags - "speech"