Desreal: primordium; --

“Quite an experience to live in fear, isn't it? That's what it is to be a slave.”
- Blade Runner

Aunt, aunt, the winds cry, everywhere, nowhere, a deep ringing mass of gale-storms and snow. Aunt, aunt…

The winds dart, hunt, seek; and she moves in their wake – here a glimpse of gunmetal gray that fades into the darknesses of the woods, and vanishes – and flits out again, light as the air pregnant with tension and winter in her wake, in some unknown land where moss is soft and the woods, gentle.

This way she runs – back and forth between this world and nothingness, like a sort of Shroedinger’s cat, a pleasure as slick as it is dangerous in her veins.

And finally – though she would not know how – she feels it: the pulse that is like a reminiscence of something else much thicker and much stronger, something choking and coughing in earth.

Memories trickle back into her mind as she walks into the circle of moss and stones – things like mushrooms and wild hunts through the woods. Things like how she had wanted this freedom, nominal and real both, to fly and to dance and do as she pleased, rather than as needed.

Memories…

Colors and smells and tastes as she’d never dreamed.

Ah.

Are you here, auntie?

The shadows, as they curl in every leaf and every tree, every stone and mushroom, seem to sing.

fenrisulfr
some there be that shadows kiss,
such have but a shadow’s bliss