Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
Receiving a note in return only prompted a very mulish countenance as she whirled her way across docks and ports, sands and beaches, prodding and stomping along makeshift pathways in her bare feet, kicking rocks out of her way with no dignity, no grace, no poise. A thunderstorm, a tempest, a hurricane, with nothing or no one to coax her out of its blinding haze. Fangorn, bless him, tried and strived, but knew better than to throw himself directly into danger, and so she furrowed her brow, clenched her fists, and sighed. Before she even got into the house she took a few deep breaths, attempting to narrow down the frustrations into familiar pinpoints, and not the known triggers, her heart pounding against her ribs like a beating drum.
Ignorant to her own feelings, to which walls of exasperation flickered within and which wailed without, and she could feel the storm brewing all over again. Maybe, in some way, it felt like they were running away, and she was being left alone. Even if she’d chosen it within the past couple of months, to be away from the spiraling, from the nonsense, from the drama, from spewing out vitriol and vehemence that no one wanted to hear or listen to or do anything with. Maybe she felt useless. Maybe she didn’t know what she was supposed to do either.
She stood on that doorstep for more than a few moments, before the clarity took over, and she wandered in; over familiar proportions and up along stairs, until she could hear him in the kitchen. Her eyes went to boxes packed first, inclining with a rigidity in her soul that was threatening to burst. Instead, it was her vocals through the enclosed space. Not a shout. Not a shriek. Just defiant and infused with something she couldn’t name (sorrow? Anguish? Confusion?) “I don’t know what you want me to say.” Another breath, like she was nearly there, brimming and brewing and the fire beginning to stoke, to kindle. “And I certainly don’t know what’s going on anymore.”
Ignorant to her own feelings, to which walls of exasperation flickered within and which wailed without, and she could feel the storm brewing all over again. Maybe, in some way, it felt like they were running away, and she was being left alone. Even if she’d chosen it within the past couple of months, to be away from the spiraling, from the nonsense, from the drama, from spewing out vitriol and vehemence that no one wanted to hear or listen to or do anything with. Maybe she felt useless. Maybe she didn’t know what she was supposed to do either.
She stood on that doorstep for more than a few moments, before the clarity took over, and she wandered in; over familiar proportions and up along stairs, until she could hear him in the kitchen. Her eyes went to boxes packed first, inclining with a rigidity in her soul that was threatening to burst. Instead, it was her vocals through the enclosed space. Not a shout. Not a shriek. Just defiant and infused with something she couldn’t name (sorrow? Anguish? Confusion?) “I don’t know what you want me to say.” Another breath, like she was nearly there, brimming and brewing and the fire beginning to stoke, to kindle. “And I certainly don’t know what’s going on anymore.”
I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
