Post by Gemini on Nov 7, 2020 10:53:20 GMT -5
●●●
when you have
a dream
you must grab it
and never let go
Shaking his crania, he swallowed thickly, visage diverting from left to right. His large audits swiveled, listening for the reverberation of scattering across the terrain. It was a rough day. The hunt was turning to a failure and disappointment, unable to track anything. A huff escaped Thistlewhisper's velveteen nares, frustrated with himself and it had just begun. The hunting patrol was of five felines, where he had split up and gone with one other StoneClanner. He found himself pacing, unable to focus on the hunt. I'm a mouse-brain, c'mon, this isn't difficult.
I am just a waste of space, but where did that mouse go... He trailed off, lowering his embodiment toward the ground, slinking toward rustling shrubbery. Upon the stinky aroma, he identified the animal as a snake, causing him to stumble backwards. Thistlewhisper was actually afraid of snakes. He sighed once more. The sigh fluttered on the winds like a butterfly decorated with a perfidy amount of colors. A sigh. Desire and disgust. Streamed through the air. A sigh. Disappointment and gladness. Decorated the air leaving a path. A sigh. Of relief and worry. Leaping through the air like a dear. A sigh. Of happiness and sadness. Dancing through the air. A sigh. Of excitement and fear. Strolling through the air like a roller coaster. A sigh means it all. His sigh was different this time. Thistlewhisper's sigh was resigned and weary. It signaled the end of deliberate effort and the beginning of passive deterioration. It was a sigh so quiet that it went unnoticed, it's sound and it's movement dissipated out into the vastness of the world and made no effect at all. It was not the start of any butterfly effect. But in the young tom's life, it was a pivotal turning point. It was the moment he gave up.
Thistlewhisper waited for the moment, slipping away from the patrol as briskly as he could. His disappointment led to an escape out of the hunting patrol. He enjoyed hunting, but this evening was causing all sorts of frustration. The young warrior felt as though he should just give up, but that's him allowing his mind to get the best of him. There had to be about half of others are at war with their cranium, on the brink of snapping. The mind was something that brought stress and unease to Thistlewhisper, descending into a pit of misery and a vast abyss, filled with a void of darkness and never-ending words of disappointment. The urge to impress and surprise others was always at stake, his mind uncontrolled and like the depths of the ocean; undiscovered and yet to be unwound. The mind and him were an unfair war.
The soft susurration of autumnal leaves overhead was as good as his mother's words to him. It was as if the breeze carried his spirit and gentle ways. A small way further up the woodland track a flurry of leaves became free of their boughs and fluttered down in their unhurried way, tumbling to join their sisters and brothers on the earth. Together they made such a carpet of vibrancy and texture. Each paw-fall brought a crunch beneath his foundations, the familiar feeling comforting and gratifying. He was still unsatisfied, however, never allowing himself to escape his brutal mind after a failed hunt. He was unable to detect prey he liked to hunt, and barely able to find anything in general. Maybe he was just overreacting, but that was something he couldn't realize himself.
His cheek furs whipped into his almond eyes carried by the brisk autumn breeze. Winds like this never failed to amaze him; a chilly blend of cinnamon and warm spices, carried by whispers of attempting to stay warm yet to come. Leaves rained down throughout the territory; warm blends of red and orange that softened the hard edges of the coming cold season into a picturesque transition. He shuddered, deep inside his wildly pelage-- achromatic. His coloration was of rather neutral colors, intertwined perfectly to make up his pulchritudinous portrayal.
For a moment, he pondered, wandering how quickly he'd pass onto StarClan. Some warriors died young, or some don't even make it to apprenticeship or warrior hood. It was something he worried about. Thistlewhisper hoped to do something great before his death, to be admired at least somewhat. There were others he wanted to make proud and astonish them. He knew death, he saw it once before, with his very own eyes. Whitejaw, his father. Death is a transition, that he'd known that for sometime. The individual, the personality and the memories die but the soul moves on. It seems so strange that humanity didn't understand the soul for so long, that like any other form of energy it can't be created or destroyed. He should be happy for Whitejaw, happy that he is moving on to a new adventure, but he wanted him back so much that he once though his heart would burst and shatter. The memory of looking at his body, he could see he wasn't there, no more than he after he's made a mistake. He prayed to StarClan will see fit to put them together in the next life, that he will see his father again.
I am just a waste of space, but where did that mouse go... He trailed off, lowering his embodiment toward the ground, slinking toward rustling shrubbery. Upon the stinky aroma, he identified the animal as a snake, causing him to stumble backwards. Thistlewhisper was actually afraid of snakes. He sighed once more. The sigh fluttered on the winds like a butterfly decorated with a perfidy amount of colors. A sigh. Desire and disgust. Streamed through the air. A sigh. Disappointment and gladness. Decorated the air leaving a path. A sigh. Of relief and worry. Leaping through the air like a dear. A sigh. Of happiness and sadness. Dancing through the air. A sigh. Of excitement and fear. Strolling through the air like a roller coaster. A sigh means it all. His sigh was different this time. Thistlewhisper's sigh was resigned and weary. It signaled the end of deliberate effort and the beginning of passive deterioration. It was a sigh so quiet that it went unnoticed, it's sound and it's movement dissipated out into the vastness of the world and made no effect at all. It was not the start of any butterfly effect. But in the young tom's life, it was a pivotal turning point. It was the moment he gave up.
Thistlewhisper waited for the moment, slipping away from the patrol as briskly as he could. His disappointment led to an escape out of the hunting patrol. He enjoyed hunting, but this evening was causing all sorts of frustration. The young warrior felt as though he should just give up, but that's him allowing his mind to get the best of him. There had to be about half of others are at war with their cranium, on the brink of snapping. The mind was something that brought stress and unease to Thistlewhisper, descending into a pit of misery and a vast abyss, filled with a void of darkness and never-ending words of disappointment. The urge to impress and surprise others was always at stake, his mind uncontrolled and like the depths of the ocean; undiscovered and yet to be unwound. The mind and him were an unfair war.
The soft susurration of autumnal leaves overhead was as good as his mother's words to him. It was as if the breeze carried his spirit and gentle ways. A small way further up the woodland track a flurry of leaves became free of their boughs and fluttered down in their unhurried way, tumbling to join their sisters and brothers on the earth. Together they made such a carpet of vibrancy and texture. Each paw-fall brought a crunch beneath his foundations, the familiar feeling comforting and gratifying. He was still unsatisfied, however, never allowing himself to escape his brutal mind after a failed hunt. He was unable to detect prey he liked to hunt, and barely able to find anything in general. Maybe he was just overreacting, but that was something he couldn't realize himself.
His cheek furs whipped into his almond eyes carried by the brisk autumn breeze. Winds like this never failed to amaze him; a chilly blend of cinnamon and warm spices, carried by whispers of attempting to stay warm yet to come. Leaves rained down throughout the territory; warm blends of red and orange that softened the hard edges of the coming cold season into a picturesque transition. He shuddered, deep inside his wildly pelage-- achromatic. His coloration was of rather neutral colors, intertwined perfectly to make up his pulchritudinous portrayal.
For a moment, he pondered, wandering how quickly he'd pass onto StarClan. Some warriors died young, or some don't even make it to apprenticeship or warrior hood. It was something he worried about. Thistlewhisper hoped to do something great before his death, to be admired at least somewhat. There were others he wanted to make proud and astonish them. He knew death, he saw it once before, with his very own eyes. Whitejaw, his father. Death is a transition, that he'd known that for sometime. The individual, the personality and the memories die but the soul moves on. It seems so strange that humanity didn't understand the soul for so long, that like any other form of energy it can't be created or destroyed. He should be happy for Whitejaw, happy that he is moving on to a new adventure, but he wanted him back so much that he once though his heart would burst and shatter. The memory of looking at his body, he could see he wasn't there, no more than he after he's made a mistake. He prayed to StarClan will see fit to put them together in the next life, that he will see his father again.
All this time, he had returned back to camp, with nothing. The tom found himself sitting near the Warriors' Den, plopped to his haunches. The young warrior's prickly tail shifted to his frontal appendages, visage dull as he looked onward into the lasting daylight. What a disappointment. Anyone could tell when this boy was upset, with the way he spaced off and went silent. He's not talkative, but he's not mute either.
MADE BY VEL OF GS + ADOXOGRAPHY 2.0