You are nothing, if not bred to bathe in the scents of distress, little one.
Ever the dismissive creature, habitually cloaked in the shadows of restlessness, she waved a hand and fell subtly into stride. Her hand, delicately risen to weave a path along the silence of His lies, was soon found pressing along her temple. A hint, slight and shirked in moments, that her mind was a playground for the damning evidence of her heartache… she lied with the innocence of a child, and it shone in the honesty of her gaze. A vision, thankfully, which none would bare witness to as she walked in stirring memory through her days.
There was nothing stirred, which was not worth the liquid. Worth the taste. Humanity was a continuation of lifelong lessons shied away from, and ignored. There were none that did what was truly desired, against their will. No, even the promise of death was a fear all too fleeting, and the base of what creation shadows the soul will rise for a lick of the fallacy…it is within.
It is deep in the regions better left to the stark nature many have forgotten. It is a choice, a whisper, a greed of differences that sets each and every partaking patron [alike]. Indifference? Perhaps, in some shaken corner of the timeless, there is a path that cares for little. Yet, we are taken to what we hold as dear, and we linger for the caresses that tangle our tresses..and fire our pulses into deathly trials..
It is nothing, if not merely how we see the things before us. Behind us. Between us…
It is, in fact, nothing.
Such is my given perception.