though, i suppose it's thursday now, haha

I find it very funny that I have two similarities with @vakariansyndrome (which, thank you so very much fore the tag!) in this, those two being: - I am not the greatest when it comes to responding to tag games (I see them and I love them thank you!!! I just suck at tumblr) - I would also like to share a first person project I'm working on 💖

In the greenery of the garden, I saw delicate butterflies flounce about. They bobbed and weaved through the tall grass in a manner unbeknownst to me. I took another step forward into the garden, following Valora deeper into the tall grass. Her silence is abnormal, such as cloudless rain, though not unwelcome. Seemingly content with bobbing and weaving through the tall grass, as if she was one of the butterflies. Again, in a manner unbeknownst to me, I found myself wanting to know what invisible song she moves along to; to know what drives her. What invisible thread pulls her towards the great beyond. Awareness has become a weight on my very being, and the knowledge that her spool will one day run out is ever-present in my mind. The demise of my only friend is ever-present in my chest. There’s a sense of omnipotence to it. Inevitability is the vulture, the carrion, and the rapidly-closing space between the two. I do not love Valora Feirefitz. I simply wish to kiss her with all the tenderness of biting into an apple. “What’s your favorite kind of flower, Astarion?” Her voice cut through the weeds, and for the second time in a very short period, Valora’s voice grounded me. I felt uncomfortable at the thought of how easily she can dissect me, even with the most casual of questions. My favorite flower was not something I’d ever given tangible thought to, and yet, under her lens it’s the only thing I’m able to think of.  Peonies? I rolled my eyes. Absolutely not. As I turned back towards the garden, I spotted the flowers left in our wake. All sorts of wild untamed growth, mixed in with the various other outcroppings behind us. I feel at peace amongst the thick greenery, for it too is the backside of embroidery rather than the embroidery itself. A mess of loose threads tangled up in themselves. There is no difference between the tangled boskage of the Sword Coast and the thicket within my heart.  She cuts through both, and I loathe her for it.