Our mistakes are repeated, repeated, an old clock chiming with the final screams of a dead world. Each time, one thinks 'this is the last'. They smile and reminisce and think of more peaceful times as their hands flash down, and down, and the red is dyed into their skin and their eyes pop manically from their sockets. What do you think of your hero? Do you applaud his victory over evil? Can you see the happiness on her face as she's swept away on his white horse?
Do you wonder how long her smiles will last?
But as the hoofbeats die away, the sand doesn't shake and collapse into the holes left in its once-pristine surface. As the wind and the waves work to heal with invisible caresses, tomorrow, when the sun breaks through an impenetrable, wild darkness, it will be clean again.
Our world is founded on a word.
Dirt. Shade. The wind that brings the home down. The wolves that drag us, screaming, to their families.
More words than one could remember. More than one should imagine.
How do you see the world?
I see it as home. It was only ever home, to us. Even when everything changed, it was home. When the continent was rent in two, then into pieces, then ground into absolutely nothing at all- all I could think of was how long it would be 'til harvest, if I should grow corn this year, if potatoes would trade with wandering travellers better.
It's still home now. Even as his knife cut into my skin and ripped it open, letting me fall out onto the early frost, I wondered if they would let me stay here. Let some dusty merchant stumble across browned ribs and a jawless skull lying amongst the most beautiful pumpkins he's ever seen.
I think I would enjoy dying here, and beyond. My home will always be under these cracked pines and low-lying prairie grass.
Did I ever tell you why?
"Sorry poklaying dota2." -Zeecount 2014