Mortality is quite the finicky beast. As a young child there are no limits, no concept of life or death. Living or dying is not something one is aware of, and perhaps that is the biggest blessing - the ignorant bliss into which one is born. The most unforgiving gift is most often knowledge; the reaching of glass ceilings, and the inability to shatter or surpass these society or self imposed limits. Who has not known the bitter taste of disappoint, or the heart stopping rush of losing what was most dear. Perhaps the coyote represents the only sane creature in this whole land. The gift of dying while fighting - a warrior's death (though possibly misguided in the case of this poor beast) - is almost as close to perfection as one could seek. Unlike this little girl, dressed in a pretty wrapper, with nothing left inside to give. She is but a hollow gift - the shiny present perfectly tucked away beneath the picturesque evergreen on Christmas morning, ripped open with glee only to have your hopes dashed by the functionality of brand new socks. She has forever been but a place holder in a world of exciting gadgets. Though she is here and present for the time being, this sweet child of indigo and ice may not meet your expectations or fill that hole within you - she has never proven to be enough to solve even a single creature's loneliness; not even her own. What a lovely way to say goodbye; with respect and almost stoic admiration for the way that the beast had fallen. In life such departures are seldom - so much waste and destruction often stay behind in the wake of the dying. Would it not be easier to choose to leave, to escape to a world of fantasy and light. She sighs softly, the melancholy setting in as a dull ache within her bird-like chest. The force of the sigh moves her ribcage, the etching of bone catching in the light to reveal her far too slender form. Even the act of breathing is draining and repetitive, a simple going through of the motions. How exhausting she find it, this never-ending cycle of movements and acting. There will be no more acting. How comforting it is to know that there is another as weary and bone-tired as she. Her façade of the perfect dancing doll has long since fallen. Her ventriloquist strings long severed and her impulse to please others taken with the blades used to cut. Fate is perhaps playing a cruel joke by bringing two lost wanderers together. Though one knows the lands of which he treks through, he seems no more at home that she. Perhaps he is also but a shell - brittle and beginning to crack - filled to the brim with emotions that one cannot handle alone. She is lost in the tide of failure and consumed by the wretchedness of not knowing which way will bring her to the surface. Yet she will try, fight even, like the now damned soul the brute before her left behind in the banks of pearlescent snow. Or perhaps she too shall simply succumb to the grasping fingers of the afterlife. The soft noise from behind causes her whole body to stiffen, head rising abruptly. With an abrupt intake of breath, she turns slowly, urging herself to stop her emaciated frame from trembling. Perhaps he will simply believe I am cold She shakes her head gently, almost as if to accept what the presence of the man in front of her to mean. Another home that is not a home She releases her breath slowly now, and turns her amber eyes to take in the sight of the one before her. His words, but especially the tone with which they are spoken, leave her almost speechless. What an unusual greeting - one without force or demands. Confusion furrows her delicate brow as she reaches for the words he seeks. "Something worthwhile." Her eyes, for once, do not waver nor drop away. He may rise to the task of holding her here, or she could simply complete the journey to becoming the shadow she longs to become. Only time will tell. |