THE BLACK DOE
the infinite intimacy of her rage
A woman with no name slips in the negative space between bodies. There are lights, music, smells and activity; it's as though sound itself has color weaved into it. The market has a buzzing about it, an excitement that could intoxicate any goer. She feels it in her gut, tempting her, pulling pitch black eyes to a colorful object in a stand, or an owner boasting her unique assortments to the public eye. It is an entrancing feeling, she'll give it that.
But the woman with no name continues to walk. Engaging was not quite on her mind, she'd always been more of an observer, a window gazer, a wallflower. She would not know how to start a conversation, anyway, as embarrassing as that thought was. But she felt detached and odd in a sea of so many, even if she'd made her home here not so long ago. It had been difficult and unnatural to plant herself somewhere, but she knows if she is to grow at all it must be somewhere. Somewhere safe, and what better place to be than where the night sky, the moon, and all the stars are most beloved?
The Black Doe continues on, passing by what feels like lengths upon eternal lengths of the smell of food, the glint of silver jewelry, remarkable hues of cloth, the lilting sound of music, the energy of a dancer. She does, finally, stop to cling to a corner of the streets; somewhere that is just beside a brightly colored stand, though cut off by thin linen which covers it all around, save for the entrance. Inside, the owner is speaking to some several customers curious of their wares in one way or another ― she can hear the conversation, but it serves more as an addition to the din of the Night Market than anything of genuine interest.
But something pulls her attention another way, and her abyssal gaze lands upon something, someone, in the crowd. Before her, a good ways away, she cannot help being metaphorically grabbed by something that interests her, though she cannot exactly place what it is. It isn't an unknown feeling, she's used to the perplexity, but it does prompt her curiosity to bubble in her chest. Something tells her staring at them will be enough ― but this could be folly, or simple foolishness as she tries to make up every excuse to not approach the subject of her interest with questionable reasoning in her mind ― and though she stays still and silent as she is, she has a forlorn hope she is noticed.
It had been far too long without genuine conversation or interaction, and even in her lifestyle of solitude, it did get lonesome.
࿑
Speech.
But the woman with no name continues to walk. Engaging was not quite on her mind, she'd always been more of an observer, a window gazer, a wallflower. She would not know how to start a conversation, anyway, as embarrassing as that thought was. But she felt detached and odd in a sea of so many, even if she'd made her home here not so long ago. It had been difficult and unnatural to plant herself somewhere, but she knows if she is to grow at all it must be somewhere. Somewhere safe, and what better place to be than where the night sky, the moon, and all the stars are most beloved?
The Black Doe continues on, passing by what feels like lengths upon eternal lengths of the smell of food, the glint of silver jewelry, remarkable hues of cloth, the lilting sound of music, the energy of a dancer. She does, finally, stop to cling to a corner of the streets; somewhere that is just beside a brightly colored stand, though cut off by thin linen which covers it all around, save for the entrance. Inside, the owner is speaking to some several customers curious of their wares in one way or another ― she can hear the conversation, but it serves more as an addition to the din of the Night Market than anything of genuine interest.
But something pulls her attention another way, and her abyssal gaze lands upon something, someone, in the crowd. Before her, a good ways away, she cannot help being metaphorically grabbed by something that interests her, though she cannot exactly place what it is. It isn't an unknown feeling, she's used to the perplexity, but it does prompt her curiosity to bubble in her chest. Something tells her staring at them will be enough ― but this could be folly, or simple foolishness as she tries to make up every excuse to not approach the subject of her interest with questionable reasoning in her mind ― and though she stays still and silent as she is, she has a forlorn hope she is noticed.
It had been far too long without genuine conversation or interaction, and even in her lifestyle of solitude, it did get lonesome.
Speech.
