L E V I A T H A N S E A : Somthing

It's no secret that a conscience can sometimes be a pest;

My dreams are yours, dark night - - for all that I have and all that I am, I give to you all of me; secret whisperings in the dark, a lover's breath upon the lips of another. How could her unlove be construed as self-love, the loathing miseries of childlessness and orphans; song in the grey evening, moments exchanged between those who should have nothing of such exchange. She is bright, a fire in the distance, a larksong in the silence - - has beauty ever known personification before her presence? I say it has, generations upon generations breeding for the finest of features, the loveliest of colours, when suddenly the stone is thrown into the system and she rises triumphant from diseased parentage. It is a glorious knowledge, a beautiful whisper in the evening to ears which cannot hear; she is stagnant, embroiled in the shadows, the dark figures laying claim to her body, her mind, her soul - - she gladly gives what they request, fading into a nothing that is far greater than what she once was. What is she? Even she does not know, bloodlines disinteresting and geneologies far too long for her simple mind - - and the shadows remind her, she is their daughter, shaded differently and darker and lighter and brighter and far more lovely than any of their previous daughters. Has the world known love before the advent of Imbolc? I should like to say no, but that would be a falsehood, an untruth - - love has come before and love will come again.

It's no secret ambition bites the nails of success.

She paid no mind to the shadows, the sunset, the elegant dance of mindless cretins in the darkness; how she loathed their gathering intentions, their herd-mentality. To them she equated the home she had once known, be they stagnant or itinerant, mutable or cardinal - - she knew them not, understood them not, and for it gave them no mind, no desire, no acknowledgement. She loved them, yes, loved them mindlessly and recklessly, knowing nothing of their natures of desires, loving instead the manner in which they stood, the proud lifts of their heads, the lovely stance they assumed while still in the silence. She chortled, a soft rumbling in the throat which bubbled forth from lips which had o' too recently kissed the bright surface of a rippled pond, the water yet clinging to the hair there, dribbling down childishly to the soil upon which she stood. Flanked by the guardians of the trees, soft shadows which moved of their own accord, she strode forth, knowing not the leadership status of the land, the titles it bore or the helms upon which they were worn, knowing only the need to assimilate, to become one before she was shorn from the flock like unneeded fetterings.

Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief.

She could have wept in gratitude when first presented by an excellent spectacle of a stallion, ferocious and light, as a feather wafted upon an updrafted breeze - - she said nothing, paused and moved to withdraw, thinking perhaps she'd committed already some lamented societal gaffe, something which would already label her outsider, unwanted refuse, exile. His manner beset her, and she stood in confusion for long moments, her head tipped impishly and quizzically to a single side; a spaniel, indeed, would express similar characteristics. A spaniel! o! beat me, spun me, use me as but thy spaniel! But she would have none of that, quickly drowned it in the waters of her mind, quickly killed what had too soon arose. She coughed. It broke the silence and she unknowingly mirrored the deep precision of the stallion's impressive stance, drawing herself to her full-height (arguably less than that of the male) and haughtily gazing out upon his facade. Interesting, it would have been, to watch this initial face off; royal imperiality versus the unassuming fierce-will of a peasant, dark stallion against bright mare, all intents and purposes focused upon a single end, a single moment, a single syllable uttered first by the male at no loss to the female.

All kill their inspiration and sing about the grief.

She paused, rebuffed by the acknowledgement of 'our,' already distancing her from the remains of the harem, the accumulated strategies and thoughts of a hundred unnamed horses - - she started, lifted a single foreleg, and placed it back down, as though indecisive, as though uncertain. It must be said, then, that she was nothing of the kind - - she coughed again; something in the air here must provide some irritation to her sinuses. The dance of immortality, moments lost in shadows and beneath the cordial heavens. She replied in much the same manner as he had spoken, filled with intent. I stand shadowed for no reasons save my own; the night knows me well, Stallion, for long has it called me its proudest daughter. Singularity suits me best, Prince - - I am better divided from a whole than a mindless sector of its entirety. You do not know my face, nor do I know yours. However, I will bow . . . I am Imbolc. And she was silent, wrapped in a blanket of stars and darkness.