HE TELLS ME ABOUT THE SUN & I TELL HIM ABOUT YOU
She swims in a sea of silent screams all echoing around inside her head, they bleat and yell and beg and plead; over and over an endless melody of anguish. Emotions, Moira decided long ago, are a weakness. Now, she remembers why. She remembers how they can hinder logic and thought, can push back reason in favor of reckless impulses.
Emotions make the world awful.
So the girl with glass eyes and a frozen heart lets storms rage and burn so cold it freezes her, feels frost nipping at her bones, her intestines twisting into immovable glaciers, her heart splintering and sealed with the icy breath left behind on the island. Thoughts of a woman on fire are cast aside, thoughts of a woman of community flee before winter's kiss, thoughts of even her beloved Isra fall short as a shell of ice encases the phoenix. She had burned, and she had burned so brightly for those who needed it, and in the end the phoenix burned herself to a crisp. Fledgling wings are bare, no feathers of flame to be seen yet, only the newness of the world once more.
For everything has changed with the ringing in her head only growing louder day by day.
Somewhere, a tiger rumbles, soft and low, keening cries aching to reach through the snow-kissed barrio. To no avail, Neerja cannot pull Moira from her swan dive into an eternity of frost and starlight. Were Caligo here, perhaps she would kiss her Emissary's eyelids, breathe darkness out of her soul and wrap her in it so completely that it would bleed warmth back into every part that is going cold.
She is a sea, swelling, swelling, swelling with waves of frosted froth and snowflake foam. Everything falls to its devastating affects when it hits ivory towers and walls so carefully crafted to keep everything safe and compartmentalized. And when the waters flow out, when they go as he did, crystal statues are left of the horrors she's seen, the people she's met, the things which are the making and unmaking of Moira Tonnerre.
At last, with the press of sharp tooth into tender flesh of supple hip, curving down and leading to long, thin legs that seem too skinny to carry all of her, golden eyes focus on Neerja. There is no smile, only ghosts that are alive within the creases of her face and the hollows of her eyes. Together, they go into the maze to remember and to forget.
Emotions make the world awful.
So the girl with glass eyes and a frozen heart lets storms rage and burn so cold it freezes her, feels frost nipping at her bones, her intestines twisting into immovable glaciers, her heart splintering and sealed with the icy breath left behind on the island. Thoughts of a woman on fire are cast aside, thoughts of a woman of community flee before winter's kiss, thoughts of even her beloved Isra fall short as a shell of ice encases the phoenix. She had burned, and she had burned so brightly for those who needed it, and in the end the phoenix burned herself to a crisp. Fledgling wings are bare, no feathers of flame to be seen yet, only the newness of the world once more.
For everything has changed with the ringing in her head only growing louder day by day.
Somewhere, a tiger rumbles, soft and low, keening cries aching to reach through the snow-kissed barrio. To no avail, Neerja cannot pull Moira from her swan dive into an eternity of frost and starlight. Were Caligo here, perhaps she would kiss her Emissary's eyelids, breathe darkness out of her soul and wrap her in it so completely that it would bleed warmth back into every part that is going cold.
She is a sea, swelling, swelling, swelling with waves of frosted froth and snowflake foam. Everything falls to its devastating affects when it hits ivory towers and walls so carefully crafted to keep everything safe and compartmentalized. And when the waters flow out, when they go as he did, crystal statues are left of the horrors she's seen, the people she's met, the things which are the making and unmaking of Moira Tonnerre.
At last, with the press of sharp tooth into tender flesh of supple hip, curving down and leading to long, thin legs that seem too skinny to carry all of her, golden eyes focus on Neerja. There is no smile, only ghosts that are alive within the creases of her face and the hollows of her eyes. Together, they go into the maze to remember and to forget.
e-cho & tibet-lama | "speaking" | @ open | this is after the debacle at the shrines ^-^
