she's in my veins again
Cinnamon wasn’t actually very old, but he felt old a lot of the time. He had lived a lot of life on the mainland, and didn’t particularly like the idea of starting over, but felt like it was the best option for him now. The red stallion had had a certain encounter with the most dangerous predator, creatures that walked upright and did unnatural things, and now he felt… different. Something felt wrong, and he wasn’t sure how to fix it, and the people who would have helped him get through this feeling had not come out of the encounter with him.
It took Cinnamon a long time of just feeling off before he decided to leave the mainland. A fresh start wouldn’t be so bad, would it? He didn’t mind the thought of living alone, but he also didn’t mind the thought of finding more of his kind away from this tainted land. He could never — would never — replace his family, but companionship never hurt.
Cinnamon wasn’t actually very old, but he felt old that day as he swam away from his old life. He was tired so easily. In that moment, though he was not lonely, he wished there was someone swimming next to him, just to hear him grunt “this is not my idea of a fun time,” instead of the silently judging ocean who did not find his complaints amusing or relatable. He didn’t care if this imaginary person responded to his statement, or grunted in agreement, or just heard it and kept swimming. It would have been nice to just not be suffering this journey alone.
Cinnamon wasn’t actually very old, but he felt old as he pushed through the shallows and onto the soft, soggy sand. His body was aching from the cold and he was very sore. His breathing was heavy as it tried to catch up, and it felt like his blood was not moving fast enough through his body to warm him up again. He felt old as he wondered what would even happen when he met the inhabitants, if there were any, of this pretty frosted island. What would he say? What if they asked him why he came here? What if they asked him how was his swim, and he had to say “not my idea of a fun time” which sounded so weird now that he’d said it so many times in his head? He knew he was overthinking it. Nobody cared where he came from. Nobody cared what happened on the mainland. It was better that way.
Cinnamon wasn’t actually very old, but he felt old and bitter and unfriendly just then as he stepped into the Common, his tired body asking him to please stop moving, please just rest for a while. He did stop then. He had made it this far, and there wasn’t really much else to do for now, so Cinnamon dipped his head to the frost covered grass and closed his eyes, and dozed.
