I want to sit on a windowsill, at night, somewhere, I don't care where.
Sitting right at the edge, staring into the night; and from somewhere music is playing.
I can't know, is it from somewhere down below? Or is it my own music? The night hums along, the thing above the forests quietly roams the distant lands beyond the horizon; it does not care for me, but it does wave, when it's way carries it near enough.
Sketching, sketching, I can't remember for how long, it just is something of the mind, what it sees when it is absent.
The thing above the forests now waits, there, just where the stars are rising from the dark line, where they burn brighter than the sun. It shields me from their light, I don't love the light.
I can feel its gaze, I know it can see me, and it knows I can see it.
for being like a tree and very tall, it is very quiet, like wind rustling through leaves.
When it is close, it watches me draw, with its huge eyes, glowing with the colour of amber. I wonder whether beings like it bleed tree-sap, while starting to sketch its long form in my book.
it patiently waits for me, because why shouldn't it. It has been here long before us, and will be long after us.
assuming there is an "after".
the moon is bright under the sky, and Jupiter and Saturn, Venus and Mars, all at once, none at the same time.
it looks curiously at what I'm doing, it seems to understand, there is wisdom in these eyes.
I show it the drawing, and it gently takes it. It stores it in one of the bird nests on its head, they will take good care of it.
I don't question it, why should I.
by now I'm sitting on its giant hand, and it tells me of the time, where the old gods still roamed the land, and we fantasize about where the great dragons might have gone to.
I can feel the moss growing on my skin, it feels fuzzy and electric, and I know that I'm home.
The years pass, I don't know how many, and the forests welcome me. I wander around, to the edges of this kingdom, to watch where the humans live.
and in some nights I can hear the music, and on a windowsill I can see someone, watching the night.
they greet me with their gaze, and I wave back.
YOU ARE READING
Of the things I forgot
RandomThis is a book full of bits and bobs of various stories I've written over the time. Some were written when I was tired, and you can probably tell which ones those are. Some were written as part of a bigger story, but since my brain can't concentrate...
