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Upon entering these strange lands, the first thing Sunday noticed was that the sun no long hung in the sky. Sunday clearly remembered setting off at dawn for elsewhere. She had been wandering for as long as she remembered. The past was not forgotten to her, though she preferred to keep her mind clear and observing the complexity of nature. The area was dark, even though Sunday thought it was well into the afternoon. The only indication that it was around this time was the change in temperature, and the singing of the blue birds. Sunday kicked at a stone, and sent it skittering across the dry dirt. She looked ahead, into the dense mass of green trees. Despite all her wandering, Sunday hasn’t met a single loner like herself. Being a wanderer was not the most exciting of activities. Just endless walking. Because Sunday didn’t have anything else to do, she did a lot of thinking. No, it wasn’t really philosophical thoughts or anything like that. She just thought what would’ve happened if her parents never died, how different life would’ve been. Sunday was completely fine with being a wanderer, she had freedom. Her days were spent basking in the sunlight (if there was sunlight, that is), and galloping across endless fields. However, the life she spent living alone was starting to catch up to her, and every now and then Sunday found herself longing for a companion in her journeys. Today was no different. Sunday was back to thinking and wishing for things she couldn’t have. Others have told her that she was quite an imaginative little filly, but that was a long time ago. Almost 3 years ago. On the contrary, three years ago was when harsh reality hit her, and Sunday ran away. Surprisingly, she never had regrets about that day, and was glad she lived to tell the tale. Many didn’t.
The absent sun and the way time seemed to drag on forever was what made Sunday stop walking and stand by a river. She didn’t realize how parched her throat had become, and took a long sip from the river, relishing the taste of clear, cold water. Sunday itched to say something, but she would look absolutely crazy talking to the air. She felt that somebody was near, so she turned around in a full circle. Nobody was there. Sunday couldn’t be imagining things, because she sort of developed that sixth sense in her solitary travels. There was somebody there, Sunday was sure of it. The quiet, almost silent sound of shuffling leaves proved her thinking. It didn’t want to show itself, so Sunday opted for talking, even though she wasn’t much of a talker herself. Maybe talking would get a response out of it.
"Hello,"
Sunday called out.
"Anybody there?"
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it's your world, i'm just trying to live in it .
