Written By Segrid
Dec. 29, 2019, 2:43 p.m.(6/18/1012 AR)
I am conflicted by stillness.
The stillness before the ship, where the ground itself, soaked in blood and debris, lifeless and mute, sought to suck me down. The stillness of faces and limbs and bodies.
There is something to be said for stillness. Lingering quietly in the hall, and watching everyone pass, catching bits of their lives as they drop them like crumbs from their lips. Leaning at doorways, watching.
But when others are still, the uneasiness comes over me.
When I was born, I was already sentient. Walking, seeing, hungry and conscious of being alone. Not a squalling infant like others seem to be when they come into being. I came from stillness and darkness.
Then there was the ship. I remember then that nothing was still anymore. It rocked, day and night, night and day, and the rippling surface of the sea separated the emptiness of the sky from the wealth of its depths. The sea would eat ships, would eat mutineers and lapped at the land, slowly devouring it. The constant motion let my soul have peace. I dreamed of what lay beneath and sometimes longed for the Osprey to fold its wings and sink beneath the surface so I could see what was hidden.
Nothing is truly still, not even death.
The stillness before the ship, where the ground itself, soaked in blood and debris, lifeless and mute, sought to suck me down. The stillness of faces and limbs and bodies.
There is something to be said for stillness. Lingering quietly in the hall, and watching everyone pass, catching bits of their lives as they drop them like crumbs from their lips. Leaning at doorways, watching.
But when others are still, the uneasiness comes over me.
When I was born, I was already sentient. Walking, seeing, hungry and conscious of being alone. Not a squalling infant like others seem to be when they come into being. I came from stillness and darkness.
Then there was the ship. I remember then that nothing was still anymore. It rocked, day and night, night and day, and the rippling surface of the sea separated the emptiness of the sky from the wealth of its depths. The sea would eat ships, would eat mutineers and lapped at the land, slowly devouring it. The constant motion let my soul have peace. I dreamed of what lay beneath and sometimes longed for the Osprey to fold its wings and sink beneath the surface so I could see what was hidden.
Nothing is truly still, not even death.
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