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12-25-2015, 01:22 AM
Nymeria did not like to think she did not know about things. She was most secure when she had an understanding—whether it be in politics, or family life, or something else—of whatever demanded her confidence, and so this sudden amalgamation of horses in all colors and shapes and sizes were foreign and unwelcome to her.
Besides her lack of understanding, there was something else that was wrong, something else she abhorred: they, the great hordes of them, disturbed the—her—night. They thundered and steamed and roared like old train engines on a rusted track, and they did not belong in her world of black and white. It was the first snow of the season; should it not be falling in peace and solitude? This gentle white that drifted over soil and sand was accompanied by a bone-deep silence, one that was interrupted and perturbed by the clomping of hooves and the swish of wings. She wished they were gone, all of it, the jangling of bells and the low murmur of voices, so that she might be alone, but she could not have her selfish wish, not tonight.
She lingered on the edge, uncertain and feeling unwelcome, peering out over the crowds for familiar faces. There were too many people to file away—so instead she took note, jotting down a quick mental cue here and there: look, the man who had kidnapped her mother accompanied by twins; just aways, Isopia; again, a massive tank of man with thick feathers and a bitch at his hip.
On the faces of those around her, there is serene contentment, but all she feels is restlessness.
Why does this even matter?
Besides her lack of understanding, there was something else that was wrong, something else she abhorred: they, the great hordes of them, disturbed the—her—night. They thundered and steamed and roared like old train engines on a rusted track, and they did not belong in her world of black and white. It was the first snow of the season; should it not be falling in peace and solitude? This gentle white that drifted over soil and sand was accompanied by a bone-deep silence, one that was interrupted and perturbed by the clomping of hooves and the swish of wings. She wished they were gone, all of it, the jangling of bells and the low murmur of voices, so that she might be alone, but she could not have her selfish wish, not tonight.
She lingered on the edge, uncertain and feeling unwelcome, peering out over the crowds for familiar faces. There were too many people to file away—so instead she took note, jotting down a quick mental cue here and there: look, the man who had kidnapped her mother accompanied by twins; just aways, Isopia; again, a massive tank of man with thick feathers and a bitch at his hip.
On the faces of those around her, there is serene contentment, but all she feels is restlessness.
Why does this even matter?
I get high, and I love to get low
So the hearts keep breaking, and the heads just roll
Yes I lied, don't think about you all the time
All my switchblade words ain't aim to cut your sweet delusions
