[P] go quietly [fall]

[Mesnyi]

Go quietly; a dream
When done, should leave no trace
That it has lived, except a gleam
Across the dreamer’s face.

I think I would like some pearl wings, myself. Maybe not to fly with, I think, at first, but what are wings good for if not flying, and why could they not be both pearl and sinew and feather? There must be a way to do such things. Someone hidden deep in the underground markets - perhaps in Denocte, or Solterra - who could make me wings of pearl. It might hurt, but ah, what doesn’t? Drink does, in the end, and so does too much dancing, and not enough love. I have done well performing here and there, but steady coin (or perhaps the motivation, the desire?) has escaped me, and to buy such a thing - well, I imagine I would pay more dearly than I would like to. 

Great things come at great costs.

The statues, of course, are of excellent craftsmanship and mysterious origin. The now-famed stallion gives me pause, as I, like others, wonder who he could have been, and feel a stirring within me. No one can name it. Not even I. It is the tables of things that I find myself standing before, wondering if it would be rude to push aside this or that and observe what lay beneath. Some are more brazen than I, but it seems wrong; were they not all artistically and intrinsically placed? Is their movement by others, effectively, a natural result of their being there? I resolve that it is not my place to decide and so I do not touch them, but peek over shoulders and around necks to see what others have revealed or brought. Bits of material, stones and cloth and the like, and bones - of what I do not know - make up most of the pile, as do the baskets of tools beneath. Someone places a mask from Isra’s masquerade, yellowed and dusty and stained. Someone else - an adult - places a girl’s doll. 

It is one of those things that inexplicably gives you pause and leaves you with very little control over its effect upon your countenance. My throat tightens, and my lips tremble. Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. The gesture was simple, innocent. I cannot say if it is love, or vulnerability, or the infinitely possible stories that lead me to this reaction on such occasions. The doll could have been hers. It could have been her daughter’s, or sister’s, or grandmother’s. It might belong to someone who passed on - her own child, the storyteller in me insists. She is gone by now, of course, and I must look away from the doll to prevent myself from bursting into tears. Hours or even days later, I will think upon this, and my reaction will be the same. If I saw that doll here again, my reaction would be just as visceral. I do not hope to sing of this. It cannot be described. The violin's wail may do a better job than any words of mine. 


"Speaking."
@Aghavni || If You Should Go

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