
ππππ ππππππ’ πππππππ ππ: @aventurinecopycat you Died. You Never Died, Despite Expecting To Dozens Of Times. and Yet Even After The End, Someone Brought You Back. And Despite It All, It Was Still You Standing To Bear Witness. you Didn't Know What To Expect. You Didn't Think Anything Of It. and Then You Were, You Became. How Could You Have Known? How Could You Have Expected? that Story Is Told, Though. Over And Over And Often Enough. let's Remember Something A Little More Private. But No Less Worthy Of Holding. you Are Walking In The Woods. Wherever You Go, Half Of You Is Elated At Every Sight And Sound And Smell New And Familiar. The Other Half Feels Both Overwhelmed And Understimulated. Nothing Is Happening. You Are Just Walking, Because Your Wingspan Is Too Large For The Dense Foliage (a Distant Third Part Of You Is Deeply Annoyed At This, Remembering Darting Through Windows And Power Lines Adroitly). the Birdsong Quiets As You Pass Beneath Bowed Branches, For You Are A Strange And New Thing, Still Aglow, Flickering And Jittering And Playing With Your Claws Because They're New And So So So Easy To Activate With A Flick Of The Wrist. Was Hunting A Good Idea? Can This Really Be Called Hunting? It's Just A Walk. It Would Be Easier To Spot Prey If You Were Flying, Wouldn't It? But Then They'd All Fade Into The Brown-green Mottle Of Foliage And Earth. you Take A Breath. You Sit With Your Back Against A Tree And Feel The Bark Digging Gently Into Your Wings, Ruffling Converts And Scapulars. This Won't Do, You Tell Yourself. And You Can't Explain Why Half Of You Is Struggling. Except You Can. You Remember, You've Felt This. You Know This. You're Understimulated, You're Anxious. it's Okay. This Is Going To Be Fun. And You're Going To Get To Taste Venison With Your Strange New Tongue. You've Never Had Venison Before (you've Had Venison Hundreds Of Times, But Never Like This). you Chew Softly On The Collar Of Your Coat. It's Fraying A Little. You Refuse To Allow Yourself To Feel Guilty For This. It's What The Coat Is For. another Breath. softly, Overhead, A Cardinal Sings. Not A Harsh, Chipping Warning Call. Song. you Open Your Eyes, Glance At Your Hands. The Flickering Has Slowed To A Gentle Oscillation From Green To Orange And Back Again. you Listen, The Wind Rushing, The Bird Calls Slowly Filtering Back Into Comfort One-by-one The Longer You Stay Still. In The Mud Just Up Ahead, Baking In The Sun, Are Deer Tracks. when You Come Home, Long After The Sun Has Set And The Moon Risen, You Are Emptyhanded, But Smiling. scars πΌπππππ’ πππ β β β β β β β β β β β β β β β


