you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
Maybe he’s looking for her, when he goes to the forest.
When he sees the light streaming down between the tree trunks he imagines what it would look like to be broken by a unicorn’s horn, and how it would feel to have shards of shattered sunlight raining down against his skin. He hopes it feels more like rain instead of glass. He wants to test it.
The trees sigh a welcome to him as he passes beneath them, their branches raised like outstretched. Always reaching, always scratching - and now so many of them bare, their leaves reduced to a dry, dull blanket that covers the ground. He knows that the trees deeper in the forest are still crowned with green and gold and red, but here they look far more like skeletons. And for all the sunlight that floods this place, the forest has never felt darker or colder.
A trail of flowers follow him and for the first time, they feel out of place. As if his magic doesn’t yet understand that it’s almost winter, and things are supposed to be dying, not blooming.
He wonders if the trees would tell him what it feels like to die, if he was brave enough to press his skin against them and made himself listen. He wonders if it scares them, too, when the days grow shorter and the nights colder, or if the young saplings tremble when they lose their first leaves. Do they call it the long sleep, when they turn in upon themselves and wait out the cold?Do they somehow know that it’s only impermanent, that it’s only a matter of time before the sun and the warmth return?
It makes him feel a little better to imagine the taller trees, the ancient ones, as old housewives standing around gossiping for an eternity. Perhaps they laugh at the young saplings, or reassure them that the winter doesn’t last forever, or twist their roots like they’re holding hands beneath the earth.
He knows it’s only wishful thinking - Ipomoea knows enough about the trees to know they are braver than him, and while they might quake before a fire the cold is hardly a threat to them - but today he doesn’t care. Today he lets his imagination run wild and fill in the gaps between the trees, the spaces where the leaves ought to be.
And for a while he pretends that he’s a unicorn, too, and that his horn is made of wood and his life started as a tree.
Because sometimes pretending to be someone else was better than being who, and what, he truly is.
The fallen leaves seem to be laughing with each step he takes, and for a while he runs fast enough that the flowers struggle to keep up. But when he finally slows down again, they catch up to him. Like they always do. Like they always will. And despite the way they press hungrily against his fetlocks he’s alone, standing between the winter trees and the spring blossoms.
@thana
i don't know what this is
When he sees the light streaming down between the tree trunks he imagines what it would look like to be broken by a unicorn’s horn, and how it would feel to have shards of shattered sunlight raining down against his skin. He hopes it feels more like rain instead of glass. He wants to test it.
The trees sigh a welcome to him as he passes beneath them, their branches raised like outstretched. Always reaching, always scratching - and now so many of them bare, their leaves reduced to a dry, dull blanket that covers the ground. He knows that the trees deeper in the forest are still crowned with green and gold and red, but here they look far more like skeletons. And for all the sunlight that floods this place, the forest has never felt darker or colder.
A trail of flowers follow him and for the first time, they feel out of place. As if his magic doesn’t yet understand that it’s almost winter, and things are supposed to be dying, not blooming.
He wonders if the trees would tell him what it feels like to die, if he was brave enough to press his skin against them and made himself listen. He wonders if it scares them, too, when the days grow shorter and the nights colder, or if the young saplings tremble when they lose their first leaves. Do they call it the long sleep, when they turn in upon themselves and wait out the cold?Do they somehow know that it’s only impermanent, that it’s only a matter of time before the sun and the warmth return?
It makes him feel a little better to imagine the taller trees, the ancient ones, as old housewives standing around gossiping for an eternity. Perhaps they laugh at the young saplings, or reassure them that the winter doesn’t last forever, or twist their roots like they’re holding hands beneath the earth.
He knows it’s only wishful thinking - Ipomoea knows enough about the trees to know they are braver than him, and while they might quake before a fire the cold is hardly a threat to them - but today he doesn’t care. Today he lets his imagination run wild and fill in the gaps between the trees, the spaces where the leaves ought to be.
And for a while he pretends that he’s a unicorn, too, and that his horn is made of wood and his life started as a tree.
Because sometimes pretending to be someone else was better than being who, and what, he truly is.
The fallen leaves seem to be laughing with each step he takes, and for a while he runs fast enough that the flowers struggle to keep up. But when he finally slows down again, they catch up to him. Like they always do. Like they always will. And despite the way they press hungrily against his fetlocks he’s alone, standing between the winter trees and the spring blossoms.
@thana
i don't know what this is
