A new day, a new page. Well hello again dear friend. It's been a long time since I decided to do something creative and write a little. Here goes.
Here in the cloudy mountains of Cheltrea I feel at home. Safe, even. What a strange place to feel secure. I can see nothing other than blankness ahead, and my ears have popped from the dreadful height. They wouldn't be much use to me regardless, as the silence is almost deafening. Even the smell of this place is a blank, yet pure smell. As I breathe in, I taste that same blankness, and all that is left of my senses is the feel of the ground below me, which, strangely enough, in this blank place, is extremely intricate. I suppose once upon a time it fit with the surroundings. I can picture it just as clearly as the first time I visited. The ground was an almost silky smooth brown canvas with no markings except the fast-fading footsteps of our predecessors.
But now the ground is marked. Arrows pointing the way, codes communicating to loved ones the conditions of their towns, and even aspiring artists' beginning work was hastily scribbled while waiting for companions to finish their more urgent carvings.
How strange that in this place of importunity I find small solace. I imagine that those passing by must think me crazy to lie here staring out into the fog doing nothing but thinking while they race to their correspondence area, desperate for good news. Yet I lie here every afternoon without fail, in the exact same spot. It has become such a routine practice that I feel as though the compressed earth recognizes and welcomes me each time I return.
Here in the cloudy mountains of Cheltrea I feel at home. Safe, even. What a strange place to feel secure. I can see nothing other than blankness ahead, and my ears have popped from the dreadful height. They wouldn't be much use to me regardless, as the silence is almost deafening. Even the smell of this place is a blank, yet pure smell. As I breathe in, I taste that same blankness, and all that is left of my senses is the feel of the ground below me, which, strangely enough, in this blank place, is extremely intricate. I suppose once upon a time it fit with the surroundings. I can picture it just as clearly as the first time I visited. The ground was an almost silky smooth brown canvas with no markings except the fast-fading footsteps of our predecessors.
But now the ground is marked. Arrows pointing the way, codes communicating to loved ones the conditions of their towns, and even aspiring artists' beginning work was hastily scribbled while waiting for companions to finish their more urgent carvings.
How strange that in this place of importunity I find small solace. I imagine that those passing by must think me crazy to lie here staring out into the fog doing nothing but thinking while they race to their correspondence area, desperate for good news. Yet I lie here every afternoon without fail, in the exact same spot. It has become such a routine practice that I feel as though the compressed earth recognizes and welcomes me each time I return.
