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Sep. 24th, 2006 | 12:44 am
location: La-La Land
mood: contemplativeHrmm.
music: Stanley Climbfall - Lifehouse

I... Am inordinately bored. Which is nothing strange, considering the fact that I'm me and there's nowhere really to RP anymore. 
Kells and I are in the process of reopening Bellezza Scura, if that doesn't fall through. We might need to do a plot overhaul and clean up the canon list. To be completely honest I'm a bit apprehensive. I mean, stuff that Kelly does tends to go Whoosh with the success, but I have this whole jinx that makes RP sites tied to me crash and burn depressingly quickly.
So, yes. There will be an overhaul, and depending on the work we put into it, it may just succeed. This would make Kitty happy. Kitty likes to be happy. Kitty should drag other people into RPing, but really is not impressed by very many people except the people she already RPs with and doesn't want to go through the disappointment of playing with people that just plain suck.
Cue a big sigh and an ego the size of the sun.

In other news, D has a challenge going in Amethyst Manor to write a Tryptich for any character. I was going to do one for Morag, or maybe Bryna. But then I started writing and ended up with Willow. Willow, who was my first RP character ever in AK who moved to AME and became the Duchess' daughter. Willow who had three kids. Willow who went to sleep and never woke up. 
Willow, who was meant to stay dead but apparently doesn't want to. 
I'm torn between finishing it and seeing where she takes me, and just ignoring it until the urge goes away. Only thing is, I haven't had the urge to write in a long while now, and it feels good to just let the fingers do the walking. 

It is better to have a horrible ending than to have horrors without end
Winter’s breath caught her by surprise, the gentle angel-kisses of the snow spinning around her in search of the messenger now pressing lips to cheek, nose, forehead, mouth. Ghosts in the air graced her with their chilly admiration, and the stone roots gave break to their guardianship.
She was released.
Winter’s breath caught her by surprise, laying itself across her like a lover forgiven some long-past transgression. It tugged at weak cloth and caressed parchment-skin as the heart of the earth sounded it’s beat in the hollow drum of her chest.
Slowly, the wind found its passage in her throat, ragged and torn by first breath to give rise to a mute cry of pain and bewilderment. Fire lit her veins as the beat grew stronger. Now once, now twice; now a third, and a rhythm.
Life surged.
. . .
The bench was old, age had touched it with warm hands, tinged the stone with green and memories. Care was taken here. The tree, imperceptibly changed and yet too different to be familiar, loomed over the bower of her grave – her grave; Dark tresses shook with the fear that the thought invoked – trailing its fluid branches across the blanketed snow with respect and love. There was communion here, a sense of loss and of love. Even in the Winter this quiet grove was warm.
Promises fulfilled and wishes left wanting.
Darkness swept the snow-covered wonderland, watched the Gardens of Amethyst in their slumber. Regret stole the joy from her heart; fear bade her feet be still. Buried in the frozen sea of leaves, all browned and dead and rotten to give new life, the question rose to dried lips.
. . .
Memory came unbidden, glass-sharp and bloody to tear at her mind and soul as the infantile body of a newly wakened soul perched upon the quiet stone. A splash of darkness in the overwhelming white that shrouded Amethyst in Winter, new snow fallen to cover the sins of the old.
Thoughts of children and parents, of a family abandoned. Fear of retribution, of love. Fear of forgiveness.
Memory came unbidden and brought with it sadness and tears, life reborn and the first thoughts of sadness.
A pale sun rose; yellow light spilled from windows high and low; life stirred in the Manor House on the edge of vision.
The Second Snow began to fall, and Willow watched the world awaken.

Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self-- like a disease of the blood dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion.
The Dark was a good place to hide. It was warm and safe, regardless of the sounds that filled it: the whisper of the trees as they talked amongst themselves, puzzling over split roots and an open heart; the quiet snuffling of animals seeking the source of this new familiar presence; the paper-song of leaves crunching and shifting underfoot.
Nobody ventured to the clearing through the day. From Dawns first blush to the fading colour of Dusk the circle of trees remained still and silent but for the practised breath of the Dryad as life came to terms with her.
Time’s passing had left its mark on the land: the trees had changed, the ground was firmer. Traffic had packed the dirt on the paths, and the world whispered songs of experience.
She listened, learned the quiet lessons of a life moved along. She crossed the path countless times, let her feet remember places she had once walked, and others that had tread the same trails.
In her slumber, Amethyst had grown. New hearts had broken and been mended, new souls had been borne and disconnected. Her own children had grown. They did not venture to this place. She felt their absence like a knife, and the sudden line of fire across her cheeks beckoned the touch of unpractised fingers.
They burned hotly down her face, streaming from cloudy eyes to burn her skin in the cold. Willow wept to be alone, and to be loved, for she remembered the soft footfalls of a familiar pixie, radiant and regal. She remembered the thick earthy scents and the tears that her own mother had cried for her.
She could not return.
The pain would only worsen. Questions that she could not answer would be asked and her craving for silence and solitude would be respectfully ignored. She would have people forced upon her, be taken to gala’s and functions, set before a Nice Gentleman to become a Good Wife. Presented as a miracle and a marvel.
She would, in short, be in demand.
Her mother would have a heart attack; the Prince Consort would think her the Devil come to wreak havoc in Amethyst; the General would regard her coolly and say nothing, remaining forever on her guard.
Her brothers would always wonder what she had done, how she could have returned. Things would be tense.
Her children would not know. She could not feel the boy on the lands, and the girls were long since gone. Following their own paths as their mother returned to complete her own.
But what completion could come after death?
. . .
Candlelight spilled from the wall sconces as Mrs White went about her business, aided and abetted by the Queen in her unease. One never would have taken the tiny pixie now following the orders of a motherly old woman to be the Queen of this expansive kingdom; Queens were purported to be stoic and stone-faced, strong in the face of everything, whereas the woman lit by the warm fire’s glow was at peace. She glowed from within with love and light, a sense that was brought to the fore as the kitchen door swung open and the raven-haired woman was caught in the arms of a warrior-soul.
Mrs White only smiled to see Her Majesty so happy, and wondered at the flicker of a shadow caught at the window.
. . .
The glass was cold beneath her fingers, tangible and real and painful after so much time left unfeeling.

Aaaaaaaaand back to the non-fiction. At least, I THINK it's non-fiction. 
Wouldn't it be wierd if life was actually fiction, and the world we thought was real was actually just a dream. Or a story? Or a film even. My film is slightly boring. One of those Docudrama's where nothing DRAMATIC ever happens. Unless I get drunk.

The End.

P.S. Omigod I have to go to a Christening tomorrow.. In a Church.. ... I have to get up early and stuff >_< bugger.

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