02-11-2021, 08:17 PM
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[div style="max-width: 360px; font-family: palatino; color: #2e8b57; text-align: left; padding-top: 8px; padding-left: 10px"]HOW DO YOU RUN FROM Y[color=#5d8e93]OUR OWN MIND?
Tired. Hooves touched with wariness trotted listlessly through the White Temple. Beginning a quiet pace. Endless retracing of the same path. One end of the alter room to the other. Again. Again. Endless like the spirals in her mind. Hazy storm clouds of fear. Repeated thoughts. Worries. Memories. Never ending. It's turtles all the way down.
Dark feathers shuffled closely to her sides. A heavy weight. Lead. Another empty thought. Too afraid to fly. Just another storm cloud swirling in the mind. Miniscule to some others. Don't help him. Since he started this, he can suffer the consequences. The healer unallowed to heal.
But why should she want to anyway? To the alter and back again. And again. Once more. Hazel hues dim with restlessness. Flickering like a frantic candle. Fool. They always had one or two. Too aggressive. Inconsiderate. Arrogant. Thoughtless. Her garden lay cold and dying in the jungle. Only the hardiest of plants still holding out. Waiting for the thaw. For spring to offer some warmth back into the land. Why?
Four... Seven... Eight... Breathe.
And now what? Her father harsh and quick to retaliate. To enforce discpline. But he was not the only one angry. No. There would be others. Soon enough. What then? Would her quiet temple see more patients? Suddenly be full? Would the stupidity of one cost the lives of others? Would those outside be so angry to condemn them all again? For just one?
Inconsiderate. Thoughtless.
Optimism was an elusive grain of sand. So rarely do others decide to treat her home with kindness. With consideration one did not speak for the many. Always blind by wrath. She had to be realistic. To the alter one more time. Then back. Realistic or a fool. Couldn't rely on the few exceptions. No one seemed to like listening anyway.
Four... Seven... Eight... Breathe.
Fear a constant state of mind. The storm the clouds of her mind belonged to. But anger settled in just as easily. Frustration. Sinking into her steps with new heaviness. Finding a grounding point even as her mind continued to buzz frantically with thoughts of the future to come. Vision blurring. Encouraging overgrowth.
Vines already lingered on the walls, livening further. Blooming. The small cracks in the walls and floors an outlet for new growth. Small herbs and little flowering plants. Safe within the sanctuary of the temple. Away from direct contact with the frigid air.
Until sharp pressure dug in her head. Protesting the sacrifice of energy. Sapped away as quickly as it came. Leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake. Aine slumped against the altar, closing her eyes tightly against the throbbing pain within her head. Oblivious to the plant life flourishing around her.
[/td][/tr][/table]Dark feathers shuffled closely to her sides. A heavy weight. Lead. Another empty thought. Too afraid to fly. Just another storm cloud swirling in the mind. Miniscule to some others. Don't help him. Since he started this, he can suffer the consequences. The healer unallowed to heal.
But why should she want to anyway? To the alter and back again. And again. Once more. Hazel hues dim with restlessness. Flickering like a frantic candle. Fool. They always had one or two. Too aggressive. Inconsiderate. Arrogant. Thoughtless. Her garden lay cold and dying in the jungle. Only the hardiest of plants still holding out. Waiting for the thaw. For spring to offer some warmth back into the land. Why?
Four... Seven... Eight... Breathe.
And now what? Her father harsh and quick to retaliate. To enforce discpline. But he was not the only one angry. No. There would be others. Soon enough. What then? Would her quiet temple see more patients? Suddenly be full? Would the stupidity of one cost the lives of others? Would those outside be so angry to condemn them all again? For just one?
Inconsiderate. Thoughtless.
Optimism was an elusive grain of sand. So rarely do others decide to treat her home with kindness. With consideration one did not speak for the many. Always blind by wrath. She had to be realistic. To the alter one more time. Then back. Realistic or a fool. Couldn't rely on the few exceptions. No one seemed to like listening anyway.
Four... Seven... Eight... Breathe.
Fear a constant state of mind. The storm the clouds of her mind belonged to. But anger settled in just as easily. Frustration. Sinking into her steps with new heaviness. Finding a grounding point even as her mind continued to buzz frantically with thoughts of the future to come. Vision blurring. Encouraging overgrowth.
Vines already lingered on the walls, livening further. Blooming. The small cracks in the walls and floors an outlet for new growth. Small herbs and little flowering plants. Safe within the sanctuary of the temple. Away from direct contact with the frigid air.
Until sharp pressure dug in her head. Protesting the sacrifice of energy. Sapped away as quickly as it came. Leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake. Aine slumped against the altar, closing her eyes tightly against the throbbing pain within her head. Oblivious to the plant life flourishing around her.
© MADI
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AINE CHARLOTTE NÍ BROIN - THE PITT - 10 MOONS - RED DEER-FOX
[div style="font-size: 12px; padding-top: 175px; padding-right: 30px; padding-left: 5px; color: white; text-align: left; text-transform: uppercase"]I come & scour
desert flower
the land for the