+- WoD Denver Forums (http://forums.woddenver.com)
+-- Forum: Mage: The Ascension (http://forums.woddenver.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=16)
+--- Forum: In Character (http://forums.woddenver.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=18)
+--- Thread: afterparty [mood] (/showthread.php?tid=1052)
afterparty [mood] - mnemosyne - 12-27-2015
There is an ongoing dialogue each of us has with the world, though the transitions are nearly always subsumed in the ordinary work of existence, resistance, being. A certain day, a certain stutterstop and she is looking, is hunting, is perhaps even seeking because she caught the scent of the ocean amidst what was the wide-open prairie and now. Here here here: a thing that was is/not. Time stops: the strangers on the corner, mid-word, mid-sentence, mid-phoneme. She wants to kiss them. She wants to devour them all.
Maybe she does, when it all comes round again.
Certainly she does, when it all comes round again. That's precisely where we are, caught in the specific, razor-edge of need and fulfillment, between drowning and gasping for air, everything is clarified. She kisses him, and then him, and then her, and whatever was happening on that streetcorner an hour-or-so past sunset, some early December evening, the dark sky and the strange clouds and no sense of snow in the air, but a chilly pallor that also means: winter, darkness, the end of the world or at least of the year.
Also: the expectation of something new, and soon. The point: whatever was happening is no longer happening. This is happening. She won't make it home for three full days, but they are heady days, full of a spendthrift glory. Hell, make it five days, make it seven, if someone answers her wanna make out? text in the affirmative, and then answers her what about tmr bc i dont think i can get there bi4 also in the affirmative. No fear, no worry, just this fine, strange bliss that is fractured, sure, imperfect, echoing, solid, true: she has never been so solidly, so entirely her-self. Except: she always has. That certainty and that wonder hum inside her, twinned with a giddy, abiding ache. Everything true and false, in equal measure.