[P] like dreams of love, rising out of sleep [fall]

[Mesnyi]

White flowers, a-bloom on the vagrant deep,
Like dreams of love, rising out of sleep,

There is a melancholy that lives in my heart and it will not, will not leave. I sing to it, and I dance for it, and no matter how much I perform, how raw my throat becomes or how sore my legs are, it is there, unfathomable, lonely, and dark. There is nothing left for me here, and though I daydream, I know there is nothing for me there, either. I have not found what I am looking for, as I have not found it since Then, and I suppose I must keep looking. I know not when my people will come for me, and I wonder if it will be after I die. Perhaps I ought to board a ship and be gone; what does it matter to a Benevolent, anyway, travel is travel, but these are false words. To travel with a troupe is everything to my people. I obsess over it, now, as I always do before I leave, before they come back to me and I go home with them. But I cannot go home. Home is here, and not-here, but it is not the home in my heart. No. There is no home in my heart, and if there is, it is empty.

So I think about the certain religions of the world as I pick through the meadow, wondering if it would be possible to keep my clumsy hooves from trampling some precious and unseen life. An insect, a blossom; they are nothing to us. What would it mean for them to matter? We would fear treading upon the earth, as certain sects do. We cannot levitate, or at least, I cannot, and those with wings must find somewhere to rest (and who is to say that hapless insects are not flattened against a pegasi’s breast or whipped to death by feathered wings, without the “highest form of life” being none the wiser?) Can any of us be innocent of murder, when it is impossible to stop its occurrence? I am no soldier, certainly, but how often is such mass murder a choice? How often do we truly have a choice?

I sigh, and watch the children tumble by, the stardust puffing into the air like pollen, drifting on the breeze to settle elsewhere. Children are innocent, and they do not care what is crushed beneath their hooves. Should I care, then, who is lost without me? We must all come around, eventually. It is not my duty to ensure that everyone does; as I said, I am no soldier, and have no duty.

The sky is purple. I long to sink into it, and disappear. 

"Speaking."
@Caspian | Drifting Flowers of the Sea

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