you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
Some days, Ipomoea wishes he could be as flexible, or as beautiful, or as dangerous as the island.
Some days he wishes that he were so full of magic that it bled into everything he did, dictated every word he spoke, changed the very tune his blood made whenever his heart sped up. Or what it might feel like to create a new world, to paint the hills over and breathe the meadows to life like a god To be able to become someone, something new whenever he wanted, to transform himself any time the novelty begins to wear off, and to not feel regret for any unfinished lives he may leave behind, or to wonder at the things that could have been, should have been, had he stayed.
All he ever thinks about now is how different things might have been, if he was someone else.
But then, he doesn’t think the flowers would still love him if he was always leaving them for another. Or that they would still cling to his heels if he was always imagining new flowers, flowers that were brighter or taller or more fragrant than the last, flowers that made him forget about all the other flowers he might have loved before. He wouldn’t blame them - but a part of him still wondered what it would feel like to pull their petals apart like he was searching for their secrets in the pollen.
Since the first time visiting the island he had wondered what it might be like to create a flower from scratch, one the world had never seen before. And as he stares up at a flower whose outstretched petals span wider than his body, he wonders at what kind of god or magic or florist could have designed it. And he remembers the crystal tulips of Eluetheria, and the floating orchids of Viride, and all the strange and wonderful flowers he had seen on the first island, and for a moment he wants to try -
When he leans in he expects the flower to reach for him the same way he reaches for it.
But it leans away. And then its petals begin to tremble, and one tender leaf on its stalk begins to wilt and fold in upon itself.
Before Ipomoea can think to step away the entire plant begins to shake, and specks of rot eat hungrily at its skin. And then it’s too late, and he can only watch as the flower begins to collapse in upon itself, and he swears he can hear it starting to sob when faced with death.
@thana
word vomit
Some days he wishes that he were so full of magic that it bled into everything he did, dictated every word he spoke, changed the very tune his blood made whenever his heart sped up. Or what it might feel like to create a new world, to paint the hills over and breathe the meadows to life like a god To be able to become someone, something new whenever he wanted, to transform himself any time the novelty begins to wear off, and to not feel regret for any unfinished lives he may leave behind, or to wonder at the things that could have been, should have been, had he stayed.
All he ever thinks about now is how different things might have been, if he was someone else.
But then, he doesn’t think the flowers would still love him if he was always leaving them for another. Or that they would still cling to his heels if he was always imagining new flowers, flowers that were brighter or taller or more fragrant than the last, flowers that made him forget about all the other flowers he might have loved before. He wouldn’t blame them - but a part of him still wondered what it would feel like to pull their petals apart like he was searching for their secrets in the pollen.
Since the first time visiting the island he had wondered what it might be like to create a flower from scratch, one the world had never seen before. And as he stares up at a flower whose outstretched petals span wider than his body, he wonders at what kind of god or magic or florist could have designed it. And he remembers the crystal tulips of Eluetheria, and the floating orchids of Viride, and all the strange and wonderful flowers he had seen on the first island, and for a moment he wants to try -
When he leans in he expects the flower to reach for him the same way he reaches for it.
But it leans away. And then its petals begin to tremble, and one tender leaf on its stalk begins to wilt and fold in upon itself.
Before Ipomoea can think to step away the entire plant begins to shake, and specks of rot eat hungrily at its skin. And then it’s too late, and he can only watch as the flower begins to collapse in upon itself, and he swears he can hear it starting to sob when faced with death.
@thana
word vomit
