(no subject)
Draco gen and a bit, ah, cryptic. Vaguely implied pairings, but it’s possible they are only noticeable if you’re me.
The Same Grey
The line between falling down with hunger and complete disinterest in food is blurred. I can’t seem to eat properly. I look at food and all I taste is the far too familiar salt of blood. On hands. On fingernails. On lips. Clogging the back of my mouth. Choking me. Stifling each breath.
Someone somewhere once told me that we need salt to survive. Possibly that gives blood nutritional content. But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. And I can’t remember a good thing anyway.
And everything. Every. Thing. Is the same as the next. Mist rising from two week old snow to sky, obscuring the horizon. The forest, edged in skeletal trees bereft of leaves. The occasional owl; swooping low as if searching for something, for someone, but never landing, never answering my calls. All of it the same grey.
Walking is like falling. I can’t feel the ground beneath my feet. It seems to be there but how can I be sure when I can feel eyes on me, and hands, that are no longer there. Possibly they never were. The line between memory and dream is blurred. If there ever was one.
I know there was once something besides grey stone, grey sky, grey trees, grey snow. It - the big It encompassing all that may or may not be out there but cannot be reached - is hovering at the edge of my vision. A blur of almost-colour, and a face, as I turn.
Sometimes the eyes are deep edge-of-winter-twilight blue. Sometimes they are deadly green, but the hair is dark. Always the hair is dark, a brown so black it sucks in the light. The night. And hands that make my own skin look ghostly white.
I know that I am missing something. Something that my mind can’t or won’t wrap itself around. Something that would be an answer. Or lead to one. But it all slips through my fingers. Through my thoughts. Like I slip through three foot thick stone walls which have been reduced to nothing more substantial than drifts of snow.
The Same Grey
The line between falling down with hunger and complete disinterest in food is blurred. I can’t seem to eat properly. I look at food and all I taste is the far too familiar salt of blood. On hands. On fingernails. On lips. Clogging the back of my mouth. Choking me. Stifling each breath.
Someone somewhere once told me that we need salt to survive. Possibly that gives blood nutritional content. But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. And I can’t remember a good thing anyway.
And everything. Every. Thing. Is the same as the next. Mist rising from two week old snow to sky, obscuring the horizon. The forest, edged in skeletal trees bereft of leaves. The occasional owl; swooping low as if searching for something, for someone, but never landing, never answering my calls. All of it the same grey.
Walking is like falling. I can’t feel the ground beneath my feet. It seems to be there but how can I be sure when I can feel eyes on me, and hands, that are no longer there. Possibly they never were. The line between memory and dream is blurred. If there ever was one.
I know there was once something besides grey stone, grey sky, grey trees, grey snow. It - the big It encompassing all that may or may not be out there but cannot be reached - is hovering at the edge of my vision. A blur of almost-colour, and a face, as I turn.
Sometimes the eyes are deep edge-of-winter-twilight blue. Sometimes they are deadly green, but the hair is dark. Always the hair is dark, a brown so black it sucks in the light. The night. And hands that make my own skin look ghostly white.
I know that I am missing something. Something that my mind can’t or won’t wrap itself around. Something that would be an answer. Or lead to one. But it all slips through my fingers. Through my thoughts. Like I slip through three foot thick stone walls which have been reduced to nothing more substantial than drifts of snow.