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Jul. 9th, 2016 08:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
violettawildeShe liked autumn and bridges, doorways, stone arches and orange sunsets, sproutlings and seashores. The liminal things, the in-between things. She felt at home with them.
And she liked the green places, the wild places, the forgotten places, the crumbling remnants of stone overgrown with luscious flora. She could often be found wandering between ancient columns that stood as stark sentinels against a starry sky, or gazing with inscrutable expression at Ziggaurat temples glinting their jagged corners from deep within a jungle, or wandering like a ghost through abandoned cathedrals, those structures built atop ancient power not quite still asleep, and the red and blue and gold light from the shattered remnants of their stained glass would illuminate her into something not of this world. Once, she found an old cabin in the woods, a hut really, all rotted wood and echoing memory, and she paused to whisper greeting to times past.
Sometimes, she would walk down a sidewalk in the heart of a city that teemed with exhaust and clatter and artificial light and rushing people, and she would stop and smile, because an ancient tree had stretched its roots and shattered the concrete that sought to choke it. Silently, she would congratulate the tree on a job well done:You did well, beautiful thing, you did splendidly. Live on, Old Oak, and then she would tug the hood of her jacket down to hide her face and the otherworldly glint in her eyes, and she would slide her hands into the pockets of her jeans and continue walking.
And she liked the green places, the wild places, the forgotten places, the crumbling remnants of stone overgrown with luscious flora. She could often be found wandering between ancient columns that stood as stark sentinels against a starry sky, or gazing with inscrutable expression at Ziggaurat temples glinting their jagged corners from deep within a jungle, or wandering like a ghost through abandoned cathedrals, those structures built atop ancient power not quite still asleep, and the red and blue and gold light from the shattered remnants of their stained glass would illuminate her into something not of this world. Once, she found an old cabin in the woods, a hut really, all rotted wood and echoing memory, and she paused to whisper greeting to times past.
Sometimes, she would walk down a sidewalk in the heart of a city that teemed with exhaust and clatter and artificial light and rushing people, and she would stop and smile, because an ancient tree had stretched its roots and shattered the concrete that sought to choke it. Silently, she would congratulate the tree on a job well done:You did well, beautiful thing, you did splendidly. Live on, Old Oak, and then she would tug the hood of her jacket down to hide her face and the otherworldly glint in her eyes, and she would slide her hands into the pockets of her jeans and continue walking.
