The Diary of Seed 1-25-09

Life, at time, becomes disjointed; it is a series of flickering moments, strung together, perhaps, by other moments, and then by darkness; the forest is a series of brief windows in the endlessly black tunnel of sleep. You take it in -- the golden dust mites, rising and falling on the wave-like winds, so subtle we cannot notice them; the often oppalescent dapling of the ground from where the soils and mossess intermingle; the swoop of a falling leaf, suspended in green spring as it plummets to the ground -- and then it is gone, and only the dreams remain.

Today, for example: today a danceline with Lemon scattered like a bomb of birds going off with the coming of a fawn casting the divine pelt; I am running with another stag after Lemon goes, whose pictogram I have seen, but cannot identify. I wrack my brain, trying to remember if I have seen his name, and not just him. All the while, we run seemingly without care, occasionally darting to help another deer get his set together.

The golden stag, Terrant, who I ran with not knowing he did not want to run with me, come close and sniffs me; 21's prescence, perhaps, has made him bold. Or perhaps it was that I learned my lesson, handled him with some caution this time. I am nervous; I bow. We are joined by another. We dance in a square; we sit in a square, and some of us, myself included, fall asleep. I dream of the four of us, watching myself sleep from a distance.

I am playing with Lemon and a friend of hers, who I saw cloned earlier that day. We run and navigate ourselves around the playground, laughing; we play goofy games. I wonder at Lemon's being here, aware that she found the place difficult. We run and jump off of the little ledge, over and over, the wind in our fur and that rush of being aware of the ground rising up to meet us suddenly being all that there is in the world for that second.

And then Lemon is gone, and I find Terrant again. We run through the goldtipped grasses of the birch forest; we goof off in the playground; I am aware suddenly of that certain something that seperates a friend from a friendquaintence there, and I'm pleased to find it, We head to the lake. Knowing some of his idiosyncrosies, I introduce him to mine; I take him to the Crying Idol to drink instead of the lake, the cleaner water going across my tongue like liquid metal. We jump across the river, again and again, until he is scared off by a newcomer.

I am sitting with Magnet, writing poetry among the soft whispering of the dragonflies. I cannot understand them -- but there is no doubt they are speaking, the buzzing falling like voices in another language. We rise and snack for a while; we conga-line in the air, the height dizzying. From above, the lake becomes like a second sky, so we are wholly surrounded.

We encounter a fawn, who fades and becomes Zerg; Magnet fades out, and Scape rises to take his place. I remember that there are birds in the birch forest, for bare-antlered deer: I try and persuade them: sit, sit, let us all have little birds. But birds, it seems, are like reflections: when they are there, they are only there for you: a small, private thing. We go, then, and run again amonth the heavy-headed grasses -- the air fills with the sound of whishk, whishk, of the grasses brushing against our sides. And then I am gone, back for another round of sleep.

((this is much later than I wanted it to be...))

January 27, 2009 - 12:24am — Pegasicorn

Magnet would like Seed to

Magnet would like Seed to know that the dragonflies like to gossip. XD But they do have their moments of giving good advice and gladly listen if one needs to rant.

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The Dragonfly Deer's Biography

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