Sometimes, I wish to become the wind. Dependable and everlasting.
Sometimes, I wish to become the mist, hanging upon the lake. Ephemeral.

And yet, I am neither. I am me. Destined to remain still, until my soul burns it’s last and flickers out. A “main-sequence” - they call it Below. Such a silly name for such a leaden fate.

Time passes, and yet you remain.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔ 
　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.

You’re but a fledgeling, the forest is yet saplings, and our infinite world stretches past horizons. And in turn, you stretch your wings out. The weight of gravity is but a mere suggestion, when opposed the rush of infinite excitement at the view from above, among the everlasting winds.

The saplings turn to trees by the time the rush subsides and the sights grow familiar quite to draw a mere ambivalence.

In those days of old memory, how many roads have been traversed? And every step has brought new sights and ambitions. Back then, I saw it all as awe inspiring, blinding in it’s mystery, free to discover. But every path grows familiar when traversed a thousand times. And in that evenness, one may start seeking a new rush.

But what shall one do, when there is no more left to discover?

The trees grow higher, and the only discovery you may discern, is the walls of your once infinite enclosure, which most shall never see, for their age does not last as much as yours. And thus, you wait. And you remain.

And in your stillness, the world does not. The saplings, that are trees now, have become a house and home. A shift in tide has brought a drought, and then a harvest.

 ˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔ 
　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.

The legends of old eras, from the ages of the first all time, hold tales of sparks that roamed our world, nameless yet. And of their thirst for immortality are most tales, indulging in the pleasures of the long life, remaining still and stagnant like water held in barrel. Never moving anything, never changing anything. And thus was their bliss.

But as still water shall turn putrid, so shall existence in such state. If world remained still, infinity would not persist. It would bring void.

The legends say, is due to this the ancient sparks fell with their era, stagnation burning out their glow, new fires kindled by the stars of everpresent change. Ironic then, is that the flames of Sun, who’s sacrifice has brought the change, - the other side of life, - are to be burning still for long after all time has gone.

And with the change that’s everpresent, a fear sparks for a creature that is stuck in tedium of long age. How does one fall in line with it? How to keep up with every passing trend and word, that’s out of fashion the moment you adapt, and in it’s place a new? The habitual kaleidoscope of innovations and ideas, that once brought sparkle to the eye, now only strikes fear in souls of those who are unable to keep up. Watching as the world you knew, while yes, once grown ambivalent to, changes drastically at every moment.

Until the mountains have flattened and fields turned to forests. Until everyone you’ve known has been succeeded by their kin. And until sound of your own name grows foreign.

And all you’re left with are your memories. Of times so few could recall. Of people who’s glow has faded long before their name has left your mind, and yet it will, with but a dull ache reminding of a person that once was.

The pain and sorrow last longer than joy in one’s mind, that is fact. A shame that it applies to someone that existed, as well. But I shall hold on to painful memories too, for long as age allows me. For that pain in my heart, is it not proof that once you have existed in my life?

But as rain washes off the dust, the time flows just the same, washing away the memory as centuries and millennia pass by.

Will I be destined to forget those I once knew? Or shall I stop remembering the names and faces altogether, alike my dearest sister? Why bother with the new, when old and dear is fading fast? Soon you’ll forget who you once were. Who you’re supposed to be. Engulfed in need to chase the change, conforming to the new ways.

...And Queen of the Forest, our dearest progenitor…

She would be disappointed to see how far her kin has fallen. Not only us, but kin of her companions as well…

She’d be furious, she’d be affronted, she’d be.... scared. Scared of how much further we could fall, how much more we could lose, and how much closer we would resemble the biteless masses.

How much longer until we lose our wings outright.

...She’d be better off not knowing one of her companions already did.

It’s in the thirst for change, the hunger to not fall behind, that we have grown complacent. Lost our fight and bite, and lost what made us feared once. One might say, that is good, there is no need for scares in era of communion. And yet the fear remains. “We are too vulnerable”, it says, Her voice within deep reaches of my soul, the echoes of the past continued through my glow. And She is right, as always is. We must not fall more docile, our kin shall keep the wings and claws forevermore.

And “forever” truly is such a long time.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔ 
　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.

Are we, the stars, permitted, then, to dwindle on such things, when in the span of what seems miniscule, in lands Below a lifetime turned to dust and rose anew?

And in our musings, never once do we recall the other side existing. The other side of life, of whom we only have scarce stories, from our dust-born kin that has returned at last back home, blessed by the gods with chance to do so.

The dwellers of the land Below, who look so like us, but do not live the same. Who’s lives are shorter than a flicker, yet they’re not afraid of death.

Perhaps they’re not afraid, while knowing that their life, while short, has brought a change for lives of kin? Perhaps that’s something we could learn from them.

The change shall always come, the tales of old are guides of such events. The trees shall burn and grow anew, and all we can do - plant new seeds. There is a meaning found in guiding others, for those who’s meanings have run dry. If we were to accept that and continue forth, perhaps we won’t be fearing stillness too.

Ten thousand years is what it takes to forget something, my dearest sister certainly would vouch. It seems so short, for creatures who’s lives span millions and more. But I believe no memory shall truly fade, and proof of that - the stories that were left for us to hold.

We don’t require immortality, and our lives are too long to be truly scared of death, but being forgotten is much worse than that. For what were those years, that we spent traversing every path? May be, for those who will traverse the paths we laid.

Yes, there is no need for immortality. I can assure, the life grows tiresome in boredom once you struggle to recall your own age. As long as stories of our times are told, even though no one remembers your name or face. As long as someone still remembers, our light shall never fade.

These rare days of memories, of the new generations keeping the flames alive, recounting tales of our past, are enough proof that we existed.

At last, the wind rushing through your feathers remains the same. And is there more to ask of this world?