The world is often a dark place, filled with strange things and even stranger movements of a universe unknown and untried. Nothing can stop the flow of time, the slow, steady trickle that quickens or becomes ever more viscous depending on the day, but always remaining the same snail's pace, trickling, trickling, slowly, slowly, slowly. Sometimes it is so perilously, fantastically, apathetic that I wonder if it even exists. Is it now a possibility I am, maybe, actually in a black world conjured of my ancient mind that ceaselessly works to organize, refile, dithering thoughts? I've considered it. Yet how could a mind create sense? I could understand voices, schizophrenia is always a possibility, but no mind could conjure a sense of sand hissing against hooves, or of a horse's soft muzzle, warm and small, nudging yours. Then there is always the possibility the divine never left me.

I test my theory. I send out my thoughts, my conscious groping for the familiar electric jolt of Divon, or the faint sensation of his sparkling grin. It is not here, and no matter how hard I try, the god of lightning does not appear. Of course, if my theorizing of this being the afterlife was true and my own wants becoming reality, then wouldn't I have my vision returned to me immediately? Divon may be hiding. A voice persists at the back of my skull, and I flick my leonine tail in mild annoyance, but again I send out my mind fumbling through the never-ending blackness that engulfs and hides. Second I try to find is Geia. Earth Mother, the mare who croons and soothes, the gifted goddess who watches over the young with fondness. Sometimes I think that it was she who sent me back to a new set of parents. She is known for her kindness. But the scent of sweet earth and fresh spring buds do not appear, not even in my nostrils. No, it is just the scent of salty sea and red sand.

Red? How did I know that? It is impossible to scent colors. It goes against nature. Unless Divon does lurk, and he has rolled in clay. No, that is a foolish answer as well, and it makes no sense at all. Huron's breath of cool rain does not permeate the air and so I strike out with one small hoof, irritable, temper risen immediately. Where have they gone? Zekora, queen of mischief and lies, maybe has hidden them from me. They are my patron gods- Divon, Huron, Geia. Deal-makers and bargain-breakers, the ones who restored my life, breathed into me and gifted me to parents new, parents not murderers and war-hungry dogs.

I continue to stand, one hoof scraping away at the sand below me, as I think of a little rhyme Hera had told me, and the two of us had spoken fondly of around Azeen, my sweet child gifted by Divon. If the god cared about me that much, would he not appear before my eyes now? It's infuriating, this. Whichever. So the rhyme springs to my mind: The grass is sweet, the birds are beat, nestle your head on a pillow, go and sleep under the willow, the sun will rise again, in the little fen. My tail twists around my cloven hoof, and my violet eyes half-shut. I begin to doze, relaxing in the warm sun, and the Sun Maress has quickly melted all my fears and furies away. Sun Maress. What's her name? I'm not sure. I never worshipped her the way I honored my three patrons. Most everyone calls her the Golden Mare, or the Sun Queen. If it's different here, I'm not aware, and I wouldn't know for a long while yet, until I can figure out what to do with my vision and if I can regain it. Normally I would have resigned myself to the not so subtle losing of eyesight- but today, I felt, would be a good day to think about it, under the Sun Queen's warm eye.

My thoughts drift to the mysterious mare who guided me to the land where the sand was underfoot and I have nothing to run into. I am have quickly done my best to know this land, and have swiftly found two sources of water. Terrible salt-water, clouded, and sweet purity, cold and crisp. My lip curls upon memory of the sharp tang exploding upon my tongue. Whoa, whoa- was I not thinking of the mystery mare only moments ago? Yes, yes I was. I imagine her with quick strokes of my mind's paintbrush, bring her into living life, and conform her from her scent of sand and dust. Compact, sweet-faced. Mmm. Bay. No, chestnut. Oh give her a few socks. Paint some white on those wings. Gorgeous. No, definitely bay. Darker. Tone it done a bit. There. Perfect.

I wonder if someone is watching me right now.

Fir0002/Flagstaffotos