Post by stitchedskull on Jan 31, 2006 21:06:56 GMT -5
A lone shadow, sillhoet, and distorted reflection wavered across the white and mottled brown and green of the earth, sky and forestry. The light lines, that just barely kept the contents of the beast from flooding away, and fading into the sky, moved slowly, with limp, flowing movements. The banner danced foreward, hugging the neck tightly as the tassel clung to its haunches. In beautiful mystery, the roan and grey creature stumbled through the frosted trees, carried on silent knives, bleeding 'pon the iced earth with neglected memories and emotions.
None recalled.
None minded.
None cared.
That is, if any saw.
Rememberance. What was it? Oh. So many things... we have all forgoten... what sorrow do those things feel, that fall away into the dust, to never to remembered. Never remincenced. We say 'Remember the good days?'. We don't want to remember the bad ones. The good days. Just those ones. So, what if you never suffered a good day? What would there be to remember? That golden flower you found in a rainstorm? That shiney pebble you keep in your pocket. Those things. Those things. Who cares about those things? They are forgotten, despite the beauty, despite the fondness towards them, they melt away in a sea of chaos. Away forever, drifting, drift, until someone says 'Remember the good days?'
And you'll bring out your shinney pebble, that's not so shinney... or the golden flower you dried.
But... a memory, isn't quite the same, is it?
What is life in a memory? To be the one that people speak of as 'That one there', and the one that your disapearance isn't noticed until you are needed. What is life as a memory?
This stag knows.
Born not in spring, but int he forgotten month of September, he was nothing but 'that late one'. The one that was forcebred, and a miracle. An unwanted miracle, but a miracle, alas. With a bodice of roan and grey, and a face painted a dirty white, stained with a thick tear down his left icey blue.
Just ask him.
Just ask those September Memories.
None recalled.
None minded.
None cared.
That is, if any saw.
Rememberance. What was it? Oh. So many things... we have all forgoten... what sorrow do those things feel, that fall away into the dust, to never to remembered. Never remincenced. We say 'Remember the good days?'. We don't want to remember the bad ones. The good days. Just those ones. So, what if you never suffered a good day? What would there be to remember? That golden flower you found in a rainstorm? That shiney pebble you keep in your pocket. Those things. Those things. Who cares about those things? They are forgotten, despite the beauty, despite the fondness towards them, they melt away in a sea of chaos. Away forever, drifting, drift, until someone says 'Remember the good days?'
And you'll bring out your shinney pebble, that's not so shinney... or the golden flower you dried.
But... a memory, isn't quite the same, is it?
What is life in a memory? To be the one that people speak of as 'That one there', and the one that your disapearance isn't noticed until you are needed. What is life as a memory?
This stag knows.
Born not in spring, but int he forgotten month of September, he was nothing but 'that late one'. The one that was forcebred, and a miracle. An unwanted miracle, but a miracle, alas. With a bodice of roan and grey, and a face painted a dirty white, stained with a thick tear down his left icey blue.
Just ask him.
Just ask those September Memories.
