A s t a
'cause i thought i saw your soul
I often pretend I pay little mind to those around me.
I come off abrasive, after all.
Perhaps a little harsh, rude. But majority of it is really a coping mechanism, a defense to keep others at bay. I've stopped trying to make relationships prosper properly a few lifetimes ago, when I grew tired of the pain of it all. When I realized that the growing number of familiar faces who wouldn't be able to share the same stories that I remembered, would continue to grow by each life time I live, full of relationships made . . . I stopped aiming to make relationships. Sure, it might seem lonely. Sure, it might be stupid.
But I was surviving because of it.
I've seen those who work with the mythical arts before. I could usually spot an imposter fairly quickly. But there was also a level of talent that even if one had some talent - you had to see them in action to really see the reach of their intuition. But, naturally my own offensive attitude is what I lead with as I approach the being who proclaimed herself to be a teller, a truth sayer, a conduit of the divine. I approached in my usual fashion, and I can see the shifts in this mare's reactions as well. Ears flicking in annoyance, the way she straightens, pushing cards aside to stare me down.
I don't falter, I don't even blink. I've looked more lions in the face than she's seen stars in the sky. I've faced beasts far fearsome with her - some of them being my own reflection. I've felt the teeth of fate tear into my body when those very lions feasted upon my flesh because I wasn't fast enough then. Because I had looked back. It took many life times even after that before I learned to stop trying to look back. To stop trying to cling to what had been. The mare makes eye contact with me, her voice almost portrays her distaste for me.
Even just a few life times ago, such immediate annoyance against my presence would have seen me turn tale, apologizing, making rights. It's amazing how quickly exhaustion could set in when you realize no matter what you do, you cannot die. Still I snort when she speaks of not needing the cards to read me. Yes, because what could she see? When no one else looks upon my face with remembrance. Maybe she was a quack, and I was another sucker in her pond of fools.
Sometimes I wonder, though; if anyone can ever truly look at me and see what is buried in that surface. See the lines of exhaustion and know they make me more susceptible to danger, because I stopped fearing death - and eagerly long for the next embrace in hopes it will keep me. Do they see that loathing, can they unbury deep enough to know I loath nothing more than my own cursed existence. Even my hatred of the gods that made me this way fall short to the hatred I have for my continued survival.
What did this mare hope to see inside my soul. Could she handle the brunt, the weight of it.
The words that began to tumble from her muzzle had me initially scoffing. Heavy, like a stone at the bottom of the lake, huh. How poetic, while not meaning much . . . it was that third sentence, however that had me freeze. I felt my muzzle grow dry, swallowing hard against the sand paper. Surely it was a prank, a joke. She couldn't see. She was trying to be hurtful, just pointing me out as an angry wall flower, not a center stager. That's all. This wasn't alluding to who I really was. She couldn't see that.
She couldn't.
The casual mention of my own eons had my heart dropping. But she keeps going. Bitter, empty life times, victim to the flow of time. She talks of sinking further, desperate, with nothing unchanging. Stop. My voice rips from my sawdust caked throat, weak in the air between us, but she doesn't stop, stating how I sink lower, lower into the lake, that they do not remember me. That voice of hers is growing distant, quiet, and I hardly notice. My heart is pounding in my chest, hurting, crushing me, as if that very water pressure is closing in on me. The water wrapping around me as blood pounds in my ears.
Forgotten. Am I really forgotten. Drowning. Swallowed by time. I'm stumbling to me feet before I can make sense, my entire body is shaking, horrified, exposed. I can feel wetness on my cheeks, and I'm befuddled to realized I'd started crying at some point. Stop. Just . . . just stop. Is that soft, weak voice really my own? My entire body temples, just as she herself seems to tremble from where she had spoke so callously about my situation. Just stop. I shouldn't have come. This was stupid. Coins are place before her, falling from my weak mental grasp, clattering to her table before I could properly set them out.
My entire world seems to be fading into a small point and I suddenly feel the need to escape. Escape this Festival. Escape this life. It's a sudden gut wrenching thought, that there was no escape from my fate though. My hooves scrambled slightly, as I try to back up, stumbling over the gathering of pillows, I- . . . I'm sorry. It's that sudden need to bolt that still remains, and it's in that moment that I realize where is there to really bolt to. When this life ends, those places of shelter I hold so dear now will be gone again . . . Novus has become my undoing again. It's just as she said . . . They will leave me in the bottom of the lake, forgotten by others, and yet unmoved by time. Just collecting moss, while the lake around me goes stagnant and dead.
Just as it does in my nightmares, when I'm the last horse on a dead planet, wandering the world again, and again, and never allowed to be free of the cycle of death and rebirth I've been cursed into . . . I never should have come to this fucking festival.
FROM THE MOUTH
INSIDE THE MIND
@Nefertari
Notes:: So . . . uhm . . . yeah, Asta's a little . . .
I come off abrasive, after all.
Perhaps a little harsh, rude. But majority of it is really a coping mechanism, a defense to keep others at bay. I've stopped trying to make relationships prosper properly a few lifetimes ago, when I grew tired of the pain of it all. When I realized that the growing number of familiar faces who wouldn't be able to share the same stories that I remembered, would continue to grow by each life time I live, full of relationships made . . . I stopped aiming to make relationships. Sure, it might seem lonely. Sure, it might be stupid.
But I was surviving because of it.
I've seen those who work with the mythical arts before. I could usually spot an imposter fairly quickly. But there was also a level of talent that even if one had some talent - you had to see them in action to really see the reach of their intuition. But, naturally my own offensive attitude is what I lead with as I approach the being who proclaimed herself to be a teller, a truth sayer, a conduit of the divine. I approached in my usual fashion, and I can see the shifts in this mare's reactions as well. Ears flicking in annoyance, the way she straightens, pushing cards aside to stare me down.
I don't falter, I don't even blink. I've looked more lions in the face than she's seen stars in the sky. I've faced beasts far fearsome with her - some of them being my own reflection. I've felt the teeth of fate tear into my body when those very lions feasted upon my flesh because I wasn't fast enough then. Because I had looked back. It took many life times even after that before I learned to stop trying to look back. To stop trying to cling to what had been. The mare makes eye contact with me, her voice almost portrays her distaste for me.
Even just a few life times ago, such immediate annoyance against my presence would have seen me turn tale, apologizing, making rights. It's amazing how quickly exhaustion could set in when you realize no matter what you do, you cannot die. Still I snort when she speaks of not needing the cards to read me. Yes, because what could she see? When no one else looks upon my face with remembrance. Maybe she was a quack, and I was another sucker in her pond of fools.
Sometimes I wonder, though; if anyone can ever truly look at me and see what is buried in that surface. See the lines of exhaustion and know they make me more susceptible to danger, because I stopped fearing death - and eagerly long for the next embrace in hopes it will keep me. Do they see that loathing, can they unbury deep enough to know I loath nothing more than my own cursed existence. Even my hatred of the gods that made me this way fall short to the hatred I have for my continued survival.
What did this mare hope to see inside my soul. Could she handle the brunt, the weight of it.
The words that began to tumble from her muzzle had me initially scoffing. Heavy, like a stone at the bottom of the lake, huh. How poetic, while not meaning much . . . it was that third sentence, however that had me freeze. I felt my muzzle grow dry, swallowing hard against the sand paper. Surely it was a prank, a joke. She couldn't see. She was trying to be hurtful, just pointing me out as an angry wall flower, not a center stager. That's all. This wasn't alluding to who I really was. She couldn't see that.
She couldn't.
The casual mention of my own eons had my heart dropping. But she keeps going. Bitter, empty life times, victim to the flow of time. She talks of sinking further, desperate, with nothing unchanging. Stop. My voice rips from my sawdust caked throat, weak in the air between us, but she doesn't stop, stating how I sink lower, lower into the lake, that they do not remember me. That voice of hers is growing distant, quiet, and I hardly notice. My heart is pounding in my chest, hurting, crushing me, as if that very water pressure is closing in on me. The water wrapping around me as blood pounds in my ears.
Forgotten. Am I really forgotten. Drowning. Swallowed by time. I'm stumbling to me feet before I can make sense, my entire body is shaking, horrified, exposed. I can feel wetness on my cheeks, and I'm befuddled to realized I'd started crying at some point. Stop. Just . . . just stop. Is that soft, weak voice really my own? My entire body temples, just as she herself seems to tremble from where she had spoke so callously about my situation. Just stop. I shouldn't have come. This was stupid. Coins are place before her, falling from my weak mental grasp, clattering to her table before I could properly set them out.
My entire world seems to be fading into a small point and I suddenly feel the need to escape. Escape this Festival. Escape this life. It's a sudden gut wrenching thought, that there was no escape from my fate though. My hooves scrambled slightly, as I try to back up, stumbling over the gathering of pillows, I- . . . I'm sorry. It's that sudden need to bolt that still remains, and it's in that moment that I realize where is there to really bolt to. When this life ends, those places of shelter I hold so dear now will be gone again . . . Novus has become my undoing again. It's just as she said . . . They will leave me in the bottom of the lake, forgotten by others, and yet unmoved by time. Just collecting moss, while the lake around me goes stagnant and dead.
Just as it does in my nightmares, when I'm the last horse on a dead planet, wandering the world again, and again, and never allowed to be free of the cycle of death and rebirth I've been cursed into . . . I never should have come to this fucking festival.
FROM THE MOUTH
INSIDE THE MIND
@Nefertari
Notes:: So . . . uhm . . . yeah, Asta's a little . . .
shades of jade and emerald
