#enchained.

[usurpyr-a]

for our muses to cuddle after one of them has a nightmare. :'^)

THE HORIZON is at war tonight: great bodies of both heaven and Earth sparking at the seam where they meet, colliding violently / cataclysmically. Flashes of lightning rupture through the thick smoke-grey sky above, popping and rumbling alongside staccato bursts of thunder carried ashore by angry ocean waves. This is by no means the very first sea-storm Eren has witnessed since venturing outside of the Walls those two-odd years ago, but it is certainly proving itself to be the most entertaining one he’s been present for thus far. The rain is still many leagues out - hours away at this point - so he’s sat himself at the coastline, edged as far into the frothing waters as he’d dared, having not quite relented to the thought of being swept away / just yet. Calm seems a laughable juxtaposition to the wild elements raging so passionately in the distance, but it is still somehow able to claim him, here, and only here / unique to time, location, circumstance. As though the thought of a looming tsunami is enough to drown out all else on its own, leaving him vacant, exposed: a pearlescent shell still ringing with static cling. Yes, he thinks, staring long into the overturned palm of a flood knuckling the sheer cliff-face he frames himself beside. There are still a great many terrible things in this world ( BUT NONE SO TERRIBLE AS I ).

Eventually he relents to returning, exhausting himself of worry / hopeful of an opportunity to sleep and not be moved ‘til morning, despite the incoming downpour. He shakes out the wet grains of sand clinging to his legs as he begins the long trek back to camp, stealing away into the dark corners / guided only by moonlight’s soft illumination / the barest flickers of lampfire dancing away from his peripheries. Not that anyone would be expecting his arrival at such a bizarre hour, but even so he marks it strange that he’d somehow managed to slip into the grounds entirely unnoticed, and then into the tent barracks - stranger still that nobody rouses even as he shuffles across the enclosure, barefoot, over a litter of bodies. Sasha and Connie are sound asleep and snoring away. He spies Jean a little further down, curled into his side, facing opposite Armin. Many more are scattered throughout, none awake enough to raise their gaze at his passing shadow. So, he moves as a ghost through rows of the sleeping dead / envious of their prone forms - yet strangely detatched from this scene, impassive and unsympathetic. The further he drifts into the tent’s closed maw, the more intangible he becomes; indeed, the callouses of his feet ache less, now / his malaise maturing into a form undeniable, both mental and physical.

Which brings him to pass by Mikasa, of all people. He stops only after a brief bout of vertigo, hesitation tugging at his ankles / urging him back from a ledge he hadn’t even been aware he was standing on. Eren stares passively down at her as she is, entangled in her thin bedsheets, and frowns at the nagging suspicion that something is wrong with her image / as though it had been reflected back at him at an imperfect angle, warping her slender limbs out of proportion. It’s only when he steps closer to her cot that he notices it: the twitching of her hands, the sweat-soaked sheen of her skin / her nervous expression hiding behind a fringe of messy hair sweeping across her cheeks. A soft ‘oh’ cleaves through his mind with perfect clarity / the eye of a storm centering directly on him, pupil dilated with a forgiving margin of interest. He knows how to survive the chaotic maelstroms of night-terrors; he braves their icy and stinging winds each time he braves sleep itself. This territory secedes easily to him, pulls away like a February breeze through fields of wildflowers still laden with snow / promising to return come springtime in kinder weather. In this moment he has the impression of an injured bird, wing twisted and askew / whistling mournfully at a sky that had so cruelly left it behind, no wind now strong enough to bear its broken body aloft. It could startle so easily, that wounded animal living behind her skin.

                        “Mikasa-?” he ventures, tenor a low rasp. “Hey ... wake up.”

Eventually he works up enough nerve to sit beside her, his weight dipping into the bow of stubborn bedsprings. Her initial lack of any response stirs a twinge of panic in him - something that had been buried deep beneath the debris of bygone years / only just now resurfacing like bits of driftwood rotting off the hull of a wrecked ship, washing ashore with their splinters smoothed away by the tide. Eren lays a warm palm against her shoulder, rocking it at a cautious pace, to-and-fro. Surprisingly, Mikasa doesn’t come to immediately - but when she does it’s with a gasp, a twittering whimper. His feather-light touch then becomes a reassuring pressure, face pensive / brows knit together in a way he wishes didn’t come so naturally, but hopes the darkness of night will conceal anyway. He’s reluctant to admit his place in this / suddenly hyperaware of the impossibility of this situation: that he’d somehow, clumsily, managed to intrude upon a moment of vulnerability he hadn’t even been aware was happening. As recognition dawns on her, too-bright with a clarity of relief she has no right looking at him with, he wonders -- is she still seeing someone else ?

Eren, for his part, can only stare down at her, carefully neutral. “... It’s just me,” he reassures, leveraging himself on a propped elbow. “You were having a bad dream, or something. Thought I’d better snap you out of it before you got too carried away.” Suddenly, a wash of sympathy overcomes him as he’s reminded, rather unceremoniously, of childhood nights spent huddled beneath a barricaded fortress of blankets, all but impenetrable: Mikasa’s shivering, his own vigilance on her behalf ... These memories roll over him in the same way the dull rumbling of thunder crests over a shoulder of hills in the distance. “... It’s the storm,” he states, “isn’t it ? I know those always used to freak you out when we were kids.” Hm. “Guess you never grew out of it ...”

With a sigh, Eren slowly lowers himself onto the bed. Mikasa accommodates him without any protest, their limbs entangling themselves together like knotted tree roots / perfectly interlaced. He faces her, swiping away a wayward strand of hair from her cheek with a careless wave of his hand, palm soothing her fevered skin, still damp. Something about her expression speaks insecurity into the small silence between them, and he can’t help his soft scoff: what does Mikasa have to fear, after all ? It’s only a little rain. Nevertheless, he falls into the same old habit of solidarity / ignoring boundaries, tucking her head under his chin, keeping awake because she can’t - a rule established as far back as their very first night spent under the same roof. His younger self had constructed a simple argument, one that still, apparently, withstood the test of time to this day: it wouldn’t be fair of him to sleep so soundly when Mikasa has no peace of her own. So, it’s his obligation to share what little comfort he is capable of offering, anymore. Nothing more than a single stubborn routine his parents never had the heart to break for them. That’s all there is to it.

He closes his eyes. I’m still scared of storms too, he doesn’t say ( THERE ARE FAR SCARIER THINGS OUT THERE, HE DOESN’T CONFESS. ). Instead, he murmurs with one final breath as the first few pliks of water skitter over the tarp roof above them: “I’m here. Now, go back to sleep, alright ? It’s late ... Storm’s ‘gonna pass by the time you wake up again, just watch.” He shrugs, absentmindedly tucking Mikasa’s blanket closer to her sides - he’d not cold, she probably needs it more than he does. He still tastes static at the back of his throat. “There’s nothing for you to worry about. Just a little rain, s’all. Just some rain.”

comfort ask meme.

[goljath-a]

"Don't give me that look, it's for your own good." Reiner matches defiance with defiance. In his hands he holds a long-handled brush, its stiff bristles covered with some sort of minty antiseptic. "Open up, your breath is terrible."

                          "GRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAOOOOWWWAAAAAAHHHHH - !!!”

THE BEAST shudders violently in his restraints / pulling forcefully against the barbed-wire snares digging into his caustic flesh, rooting him solidly in place amid a cramped rig of steel and leather cording. He flails wildly, recoiling from Reiner’s slow advance with that dreaded object of tortures past, spitting and hissing bursts of hot steam from between his clacking teeth. Jäger howls, low and keening - utterly despairing at his unfortunate predicament, yet also righteously vocalizing his outrage. Damn Marley for all of their stupid regulations, and damn Reiner for being such a compliant asshole !! It’s a complete farce, all this- this bullshit. Any closer, and he’ll be tempted to bite the Vice Commander’s arms off for the sheer audacity with which he so brazenly approaches. OH, JUST FUCK OFF ALREADY, WON’T YOU ?!?!

[goljath-a]

stands on his shoulder so she can be tall too :>

( ... This, again ? ) The behemoth shifts, rolling a cautious eye over his shoulder to land his heavy gaze ‘pon Historia’s cheeky expression  ... but nothing comes of it. Even so, his ears pin themselves back / flat ‘gainst his skull, far from the range of her reaching hands and petulant tendency to tug at them. He grumbles, shortly, under his breath: SETTLE DOWN ... ‘S not my fault if you fall off. I’m not even ‘gonna catch your sorry ass, if you do. ( A bold-faced lie / though it’s his hope that such feigned indifference will be enough to deter her from doing anything stupid. )

[usurpyr-a]

& without asking, nor saying a word, she is gonna takes his chocolate / gabi

                            “TSK - !!”

A VINDICTIVE rage seizes hold of his spine as, barring any pretense whatsoever, the revered delicacy is snatched from betwixt lithe fingers by a girl’s thieving hand. Eren can do little more than gawk, stupefied, for the split-second it takes Gabi to steal away with his chocolate - before a torrent of blood rushes to his face, pounding violently in his ears with all the brutal staccato of a war drum / teeth and fists clenched. Falco gave me that, he thinks, veins thudding desperately in want of revenge, crying out for justice; I can’t just let her get away - !!

                          “Oi oi, give that back right now, you little ff- !! Frick’n brat !!”

[usurpyr-a]

[ taste ] for (Mikasa) to cook for (Eren) :''^)

                             “... Huh ? What’s all this for ?”

THERE’S NO special occasion he can convince himself of: no significant date he recognizes as belonging to an important anniversary / a holiday / a reason why that would offer up a substantial enough explanation to excuse his rampant paranoia. Not that he distrusts Mikasa, necessarily, not in the way of cooking - she carries a familiarity with her into the kitchen that is indicative of a quiet childhood spent at her mother’s elbow, watching her work ( the both of them ). A far cry from the days of his careless youth, when the retort to his own mother’s asking for assistance in preparing dinner had been something along the lines of “but that’s a girl’s job” - to which he had been promptly hauled up by the ear and made out to be an unwilling accomplice, every night, for a whole month, until he knew his way around the knife and ladle. Unaware, the whole while, that even his vehement railing against the unjust ‘punishment’ he had received was all just a part of her grand design - a patient waiting game / a guiding hand: what do you want to have tonight, Eren ? How about I teach you to dice potatoes, hm ? Or maybe we could make something sweet, what do you think ? Some apple tarts, how does that sound ? Can you do it on your own this time ? Can you show me how you made it ? How does it taste ? What did you learn ? Wasn’t that fun ? I’m so proud of you, you know.

No, he doesn’t distrust Mikasa as a chef. The problem is that he trusts her almost a little too much - the smell of that vegetable stew she had just placed in front of him is uncannily nostalgic, after all. Bordering even on the absurd. He nearly convinces himself of some kind of witchcraft, a trick of the senses / memory betraying him for an idolized ideal, that’s all, that’s all. But. He finds himself picking up the spoon regardless. He falls all-too-easily back into that old habit of not asking too many questions, at least when food is involved. Fresh food, at that - more than a starving little orphan on the street could ever hope for in the depths of a recession. He’ll just have to accept the reality that this is, apparently, another one of Mikasa’s spontaneous ‘good deeds’, which have been becoming more frequent as of lately ... Restlessness, perhaps ? He has always known Mikasa to be a very, ah, active spirit. Nevermind that most of these ‘random’ acts of kindness have been dedicated specifically to him, it seems - just another facet of her coddling, overbearing, protective mother-hen nature. Though he has not quite yet reached his threshold for refusing her at every turn ( so he will forgive her this once ).

Eren takes a tentative sip of broth - she’d had the courtesy to wait for it to cool a touch before serving, knowing full-well he’d scarf down any meal too-quick to register his tastebuds melting until he was already more than halfway through. He hums, feeling a stubborn knot in his sternum finally relax under the torrent of warmth flooding through him. This is ... exactly like Mom used to make. I didn’t think such a thing was possible, after all this time ... had Mikasa really been paying that much attention ? It’s a ... not an unwelcome feeling, but ... For whatever reason, he’s reluctant to admit how much this has moved him / shifted something inside, as though a burden has finally been unshackled, the skin raw from where it had chafed against guilt. He can’t recall the last time he ever felt such a way. And Mikasa was able to do it, with a simple soup from when we were kids ...

“It’s ... good,” he finally manages, swallowing heavily. Suddenly, the idea strikes him: possibly ill-conceived, but the words are already tumbling out of his careless lips, too late to take back. “Hey,” he continues, looking evenly at her, “you should have some, too. Doesn’t feel right, me having all this for myself when you’re the one that worked so hard to make in the first place.”

Except. He already knows her answer, sees it in the nervous wrinkle of her nose: I’m alright / I made it for you / just enjoy it, okay ? He tries not to let his annoyance show, convinces himself of his maturity, the years spanning between the here-and-now. But something is inexplicably pulling him back into his past ... not that he is resisting it. And this is not a childhood of bitter arguments and scraped knees, utensils tied haphazardly to the ends of broomsticks, the ground trembling underfoot / eyes transfixed on the haunting image of some cherished someone’s last moments in the hand of a giant marauder-- This is warm summer days and carefree laughter echoing through the streets, a parent’s unconditional affection, pillowcases suspended from a clothesline / their billowing reminiscent of far-off ocean waves. These memories are cherished, yes, but have wasted away in his mind’s eye / been buried like so much else under the rubble of his old life, the life that could have ( should have ) been. How can he be sure he is remembering correctly ? How can he be sure he is recalling the correct taste, the correct atmosphere ? When he’d last thought of his mother, was she different than as he thinks of her now ? How many of her wrinkles has he smoothed over in his imagination ? How many of his angry, hurtful words has he since swept from her brow, in an effort to preserve her forever as the saint-savior-martyr of his youth ? All along, has he been the one robbing himself of resolution ?

... He’s never been good at it, talking to Mikasa. He’s never been any good at talking in general, forever to be known as the bull-headed boy that goes about spouting whatever inane nonsense that jumps to the tip of his tongue. He’s reserved himself, recently, to speaking only in whispers / small sentences / clipped tones. Perhaps that is the greatest deception he’s ever committed himself to: a manic desire to be at once suddenly unapproachable. But especially in the earliest of hours, like today’s, his guard slackens / slips off like an ill-fitting coat, too large for his slim shoulders. He’s never been good at pretending, either, but that hardly matters when any mood he adopts nowadays never seems to be able to find its purchase against the smooth rock wall of indifference that stands ( ever-present ) between them. As though he can do no wrong - as though he hasn’t been trying.

Eren abruptly clears his throat before discreetly glancing at Mikasa from behind the thick curtain of hair falling over his face. It’s getting long. He should really cut it soon. But, ah ...

“... You’ve been eating,” he states, less like a question and more like an accusation, “-right ? I was just remembering .. when you first came to live with me and my family. You didn’t eat anything for days - Mom thought you were ‘gonna starve yourself.” It’s a cheap, underhanded tactic, but it works - is likely to work, anyways. Eren leans back in his seat, turning over a chunk of potato in his dish. He relaxes his words, feigning nonchalance / his levity tentatively genuine. “First thing we got you to choke down was some soup, just like this ... but, heh, you only agreed to because I said I wasn’t going to eat anything so long as you weren’t.” A strange twitch of his upper lip warns of a smile threatening a larger grin / something showing teeth. “I was real serious about it, too,” he adds. “Thought I could go weeks without food if I had to. If it’d make sure you came around, eventually.”

Maybe it’s selfish of him, to weaponize those particular memories against her / in an contrived effort to comfort. But it serves to make its point: he does worry about her, in his own strange fashion - in a way even he himself cannot recognize as totally altruistic in nature. Though he does not leave the anecdote unscathed, either; he can’t stop rubbing his wrists, can’t stop itching them with blunted fingernails, afraid of his newfound freedom ( after all, what would an animal born in captivity possibly know of a life meant to be lived without restraint ? ). Despite how obediently he chews and swallows, at some point the reward of her hard work turns to a mass of indistinguishable mush in his mouth / sticking to his tongue, the backs of his molars. This simple action, too, is made awkward - thanks in no small part to his social incompetence. His ears start ringing as a damming blush dusts their tips, perhaps in punishment of his childlike over-eagerness ( “I can show you how to make it sometime, if you want - Mom taught me how.” ).

Eren dips the spoon in again, holding it out carelessly - though his hand does not waver. He schools his features into something more serious / a replication of his boyish self, all those years ago, caught scowling across the dining room table by a girl who could not swallow the weight of that gaze / no more than she could the meal slipped in front of her, whose smell only sickened - which only reminded her of the home now lost to her. He remembers his mother scolding him, back then - reminding him to give her space, to let her grieve, to never expect anything more than she was capable of day-by-day, always at her own pace. But he’s never been a very patient person.

                            “ ... Eh ? How about it ?” He gestures again, tilting his head to one side, as though expectant. “Come on. Try some. For me ? I mean, I won’t have any more unless you take a bite ... Fair’s fair, and all that.”

non-verbal meme.

[goljath-a]

Hooks dig into Jäger's back, and propel Sasha upwards until she reaches the titan's shoulder, atop which she gracefully lands, like a bird visiting an old friend. Without a word, but facetious grin pulling her lips, she finds a spot of skin on his cheek that is *not* teeth, and plants a quick kiss right there and then. Then, just as quickly as she had come, she leaves, bye Jäger have a good day Jäger.

THE HUNTRESS’ approach is heralded by a mechanical whirring as she takes to the skies / nimbly steering herself ever upwards, spitting pulsing jets of pressurized air into the midmorning quietude ( and abruptly breaking whatever concentration Jäger had been mounting upon the distant tolling of a church bell in the village neighboring Headquarters ). For his part, he hardly even notices the barbed talons dug deep into the meat of his shoulder - though he is sure to turn, albeit unconsciously, away from the angle of her blades / ever mindful of his nape, and The Doctor’s low warning: ( protect it, protect yourself ). Nevertheless, he greets Sasha with a curious tilt of the head, halfway expectant for some kind of explanation. To his knowledge, this early hour of the day was usually reserved an occasion the soldiers simply referred to as “break-fast” - something to do with food and the communal habit of eating together ... which held no significance to a Titan such as himself, but apparently meant a great deal to the humans who participated in it, of which Sasha did avidly and with tremendous vigor. But, regardless, here she is: perched atop a gargantuan form, honeyed eyes gleaming with mischief / the distinct bow of her lips strung taut, almost -- nervous --- ?

... Oh. Jäger can only blink, stupidly, as she pulls away, dropping back to the ground without any further fanfare / the impression of her chaste kiss lost to the numbing heat of his flayed skin. Still, he has the feeling that she’d just done ... something - and in his experience, “something” was usually synonymous with trouble. He quickly rouses himself, cheek twitching / one hand raised haphazardly to his face, rubbing calloused fingertips along the strange, bony contours of his visage, frankly bewildered. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT ALL ABOUT ?

[goljath-a]

gives him a kissu on his nose u_u

                                        ... MMN -- ?

THE GOLIATH stirs, briefly / one tapered ear flickering at the sound of Mikasa’s approach - her deliberate, measured footfalls instantly recognizable even to his mute senses, nulled in the wake of a passing stormcloud. The sky is a gray wash today, too dense with condensation to allow for the sun’s invigorating light to pierce through, leaving him lethargic and useless. Even the effort of opening a single eye comes across as a laborious thought, so he need not even bother to acknowledge her presence, which he knows - instinctively - seeks only to offer consolation. Her lithe hand to the bridge of his nose, her lips to his flushed skin - he wonders, among the many things quickly observed then disregarded in the haze of his rapidly-fading consciousness - if perhaps she is cold, and came to him for a reprieve from the elements which so relentlessly bully humankind’s fragile constitutions. So, in the throes of this misplaced guilt, Jäger dredges up a low purr from what little stores of energy he has left, its frequency inconsistent but stubborn. Oh, of all things, he knows very well that humans dislike the cold ...

[goljath-a]

😓

THERE IS no sleep as dreamless as this: no sleep at all / no waking / no consciousness. The dark skyless sky is a threadbare blanket, frayed at the edges between un- and real. OH MOTHER / SEAMSTRESS: weaving ribbons of sinew between her calloused hands ... Is it only in these fleeting moments, these century-long seconds, that I may feel your gentle, guiding touch / that I may love you as always you have deserved, whilst you pick the dead cartilage from between my ribs ? This longing is infinite / this longing is confined to the spaces between points: in the small pockets of void where no unholy inheritance shackles them. AND IN THIS WAY, MOTHER AND SON ( MOTHER AND HERSELF ) CAN PRETEND / can entertain such thoughts as I miss you and I want- 

BUT THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS WANT. THERE IS THE BECK AND CALL OF MASTER-KING AND THE DILLIGENCE OF HIS FAITHFUL SLAVE. THERE IS PROGENY AND THERE IS LIGHT; THERE IS ELDIA ETERNAL, LONG MAY SHE REIGN. 

But still - and stillness, always - Mother Ymir is kind / far kinder than she knows, kinder than she is ever allowed to be. She works tirelessly, fingers buried deep into the meat of the Earth, sculpting mountains of ( destroy / obliterate / conquer ) and great smooth plains of ( protect / defend / support ). She gives shape to thought and purpose to action, with nurturing care and acts of divine patience - AND OH, GOD, WHAT A HOLLOW GRIEF IT MUST BE: TO SEE YOUR CHILDREN RETURNED BACK TO YOU IN SHAMBLES / IN DISGRACE. Then: how could you love me, mother mine ? How could you tolerate the depraved horror of this vessel ? How could you love these too-heavy limbs, these monstrous acts ? I have done nothing but exist / and then not. IN ANOTHER WORLD: “Why does he have to become someone great ? Isn’t it enough that he was born into this world ?“ IN ANOTHER TWO THOUSAND YEARS: ENOUGH. ENOUGH. I’M PUTTING AN END TO THIS.

It’s far more than he / she / it / they ( ? ) deserve. Oh, on and on !! This sharp ache, this absence / abscess: the way those linen bedsheets wrestle with the air, trapping nothing, folding into themselves the shape Mother, chasing buffets of wind echoing with her laughter. THE PAST: a young girl stumbles blindly into the hollow of a great dead tree and drowns in its roots, dying alone and unwanted. THE PRESENT: a man takes a blade to his arm and thinks only of the village at his back with its people imprisoned, his heart beating a steady mantra of safety / freedom / choice. THE FUTURE: a young woman’s face creases with worry as she untangles yet another knot in a long skein of dark red wool; she can’t help but think she’s making a fool of herself for wanting to apologize to a wild animal that knows not the difference between terror and wonder. ALWAYS THE LOVE, BLINDED BY HATE. ALWAYS THE HATE, BLINDED BY LOVE. Don’t you see how cute he is already ? For me, it’s enough to be able to watch him grow up. Even if he goes far away- even if, one day, I’m unable to ever see him again ...

If only one would will it to be so !! What more does a mother want for their child, than to see them free and happy ? And what more does a child want for their mother, than to see them lifted from the rubble, alive and unhurt and always holy, in their eyes / unbreakable, unyielding ? In me I carry you, and in my heart you rest, your head bowed, your soul at peace. Mother, why can’t you understand ? Mother, why can’t you put down your work - spare me the sewing of veins in this patchwork quilt of a body - and lie down beside me, so that we may watch the stars ? I MISS YOU. I MISS YOU SO MUCH. I FEAR I WILL CRUMBLE UNDER THE WEIGHT OF THIS LONELINESS. I FEAR I WILL FORGET TO COME BACK TO YOU / I FEAR I WILL LEAVE YOU BEHIND AND NEVER FIND YOU AGAIN. Mother, come with me !! Mother, I don’t want to survive / if a life without you in it is worth anything at all, then it is free to forfeit: you are priceless, you are irreplaceable. I cannot un-exist as I do without your guiding hand clasped gently around my pulsating heart / you cannot love me as I have loved you since before forever. Let me give you this much - let me prove I can take care of you, just this once ...

THERE IS NOTHING. THERE IS THIS: A FRACTURED SOUL IS REJOINED IN STITCHES, IN INCREMENTS, IN THE SLOW CRAWL OF YEARS BEING BLED DRY BY A SHADELESS TREE. HER LIPS AT YOUR TEMPLE: HER LULLABIES A CALL TO ACTION. YOU CAN TASTE HER VOICE LIKE SO MUCH MUD CLOYING AT THE BACK OF YOUR THROAT. YOU CAN SWALLOW AROUND THE DECADES AND STILL NOT COME ANY CLOSER TO CHOKING DOWN YOUR PRIDE. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU, AND I MISS YOU, AND I WANT TO COME HOME TO YOUR WARM ARMS AROUND MY SHOULDERS ONCE MORE-

Mother works in silence. She works in darkness / her eyelids sealed shut, her gaze downcast. ( Can you not even bear the sight of me ? Are you so disgusted ? Am I everything that reminds you of what you cannot be ? ) He / it / she / it / they / it wants nothing more than to console her in these uneven bouts of stillness - but it has no will of its own ( not yet ) and has no thought to spare for its right to exist at the expense of everything else ( not now ). So they must content themselves with nothing, because there is nothing: THERE IS THE BEGINNING, AND THE END, AND THE BEGINNING AGAIN. Even so ... the moment is over before it has even begun. No time or space left for words or want. There is only a grin / too many teeth / a cheshire smile pulled taut at the corners, the barest flicker of hope / a child grasping at his mother’s skirts while she dotes and beams with naked fondness. One day, I’ll take you far away from here. We’ll go on a big adventure, you and me - we’ll leave this place and never come back. Just wait- just a little while longer, Mom. I’ll come back for you. We’ll be sunkissed and sweet and you will get to pick fresh apples from the old tree in our backyard, and you’ll be happy: YOU’LL BE FREE.

send 😓 for my muse to express worry to yours.