What Little Still Feels Real
By Willow
I used to love lying on the ground on a warm spring day, watching the clouds slowly morph into different shapes and forms. Listening to the wind gently blowing through the leaves of the trees, as if it wanted to share with me what inspired it to create those figures in the sky. I loved the feel of grass prickling my skin, and how the sun would cover me with a warm, welcoming blanket of joy. Celebrating life, feeling part of this beautiful earth. To feel so tiny and yet so one with this creation. It was comforting and peaceful.
It still is sometimes, but it is never quite the same anymore. The clouds still roll by, transforming into different shapes. I still feel the gentle wind against my skin, and I still listen to its voice in the trees. But the sun no longer brings me peace. The pale moonlight illuminates the scene now. In a way, the sun still tries to reach me through the moon but without the warmth and joy. Only a blanket of melancholy and longing remains.
And part of me wants to remain still. Just lie down on the ground, simply listening and feeling connected to the earth, until the sun slowly rises above the horizon and paints the skies with her beautiful colors. Just one last time.
What is holding me back? Why don't I just give in? I'm not supposed to be like this. Why don't I accept that I am an anomaly, that I shouldn't still be walking this planet? Welcoming the sun would be a fitting way to pay my respects to the circle of life.
And yet, I keep choosing to rise every night, pretending I can still hold on to my former life. What a lie.
I should have been in the ground for more than three decades. My life was over before it ever had the chance to blossom. And yet, here I am, pretending to make the best of my un-life. Thanks to my sire, my lover, my partner in crime, and best friend, I am who I am today. I lead the pack with the ferocity of a mother wolf: fiercely protective, yet unafraid to cull the disloyal. I do what is needed, even if it means running, hiding, or offering myself as bait to distract the predator and protect the cubs.
But for what? To what end?
The dream was never mine. Not really. It started with soil beneath my nails and sun on my face. Then came the powder, the plants, the precision… The work I was good at, the work that caught his eye.
He saw me before I saw myself.
I thought he was just another stranger passing through the farm. Too sharp, too cold, too still. But there was something raw about him. Something wild. Something that made me stop and look twice. I wanted him and yet I kept my distance. But he watched. And waited. And when everything burned to the ground and I accepted my passing, he chose me.
I hated him for it. And I loved him more than I should have.
We built something dark together. Not just an empire. Order. A family, rituals, and unspoken laws. We protected the weak, yes, but we punished the careless. The world had already shown me it doesn’t spare the innocent. Why should I?
Now, when I look at what we’ve built, I ask myself if it’s enough. If it means anything. If I mean anything.
Because I miss the grass.
I miss the wind without blood in it.
I miss the girl who whispered to trees and thought they'd whisper back.
And yet… I rise. Night after night.
Maybe not to live. But to guard what little still feels real.
