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04-14-2016, 12:45 PM
Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope.
There's a thunderstorm hulking on the horizon.
It is great and dark and as vast as the ocean. Dark, greasy gray shifts and roils and reforms, an advancing wall of darkness that threatens oblivion. You stand on the cliffs—thrilled by the wind growing with every minute, tousling and tumbling your threadbare locks—knowing that at any moment Ma or Pa or one of the herd members would come rushing to whisk you away. They hated your fascination with the cliffs; you knew it unnerved them, the way you'd dance along the edge and laugh and prance, foolish in your youth. You thought yourself invincible, with falling a laughable concern: to Tembovu, to Elsa, you still didn't have your feathers and liked giving them a headache. One day it wouldn't matter, you vowed to yourself; one day, you'd be able to go racing off the edge and you would be flying, not falling. Except that day was not today, and the day was far away.
It made you sad, this. So instead you decided to savor this moment: you stretch out your wings, allowing the wind to snarl around your pillowy fluff and comb through your feathers. It is a savage, untameable thing (so you solemnly think) as you set your shoulders and dig in your heels. It would drag you away if it could. Tentatively (and yet eagerly) you spread your wings further, glorying in the sensation of almost flying; and, with growing courage, you lighten yourself on your feet. The wind surges angrily, but you do not budge. Thrilled by your victory, you nicker, and rear, ungraceful and uncoordinated. It is not a moment later that the wind takes advantage of your foolishness. With a slap that sends you flying, you go tumbling head-over-heels in a heap of feathers and loose hair. Away, away, away, until you thump into a treetrunk.
The abruptness of the stop hurts, and you blink away tears pitifully. Then, without further ado, you clamber up back to all fours, heading back towards the perilous cliff's edge. This time—this time!—the wind would not get the better of you.
image creditsIt is great and dark and as vast as the ocean. Dark, greasy gray shifts and roils and reforms, an advancing wall of darkness that threatens oblivion. You stand on the cliffs—thrilled by the wind growing with every minute, tousling and tumbling your threadbare locks—knowing that at any moment Ma or Pa or one of the herd members would come rushing to whisk you away. They hated your fascination with the cliffs; you knew it unnerved them, the way you'd dance along the edge and laugh and prance, foolish in your youth. You thought yourself invincible, with falling a laughable concern: to Tembovu, to Elsa, you still didn't have your feathers and liked giving them a headache. One day it wouldn't matter, you vowed to yourself; one day, you'd be able to go racing off the edge and you would be flying, not falling. Except that day was not today, and the day was far away.
It made you sad, this. So instead you decided to savor this moment: you stretch out your wings, allowing the wind to snarl around your pillowy fluff and comb through your feathers. It is a savage, untameable thing (so you solemnly think) as you set your shoulders and dig in your heels. It would drag you away if it could. Tentatively (and yet eagerly) you spread your wings further, glorying in the sensation of almost flying; and, with growing courage, you lighten yourself on your feet. The wind surges angrily, but you do not budge. Thrilled by your victory, you nicker, and rear, ungraceful and uncoordinated. It is not a moment later that the wind takes advantage of your foolishness. With a slap that sends you flying, you go tumbling head-over-heels in a heap of feathers and loose hair. Away, away, away, until you thump into a treetrunk.
The abruptness of the stop hurts, and you blink away tears pitifully. Then, without further ado, you clamber up back to all fours, heading back towards the perilous cliff's edge. This time—this time!—the wind would not get the better of you.
@Oizys @Enyo and @Ërthe (?)
