Moved

it’s all so dreadfully tempting,  even he cannot deny.  tempting to puncture the already open wound of this scene,  watch the colours bloat and brim beyond reckoning,  discard useless spaces and fill them with lavender longing.  he could paint the portrait now,  down deep in the recesses of his mind,  know every brushstroke and bloated bullet that comes to pass.  in the end,  his laughter almost joins her own where the defined click of a metal ridge goes off,  his attention dragged elsewhere.   ❝  you ?   ❞  brows would be visibly raised by now,  but the inflection itself bleeds in his voice alone,   ❝  oh no no no,  my dear,  i wasn’t referring to you,  i was referring to  —   ❞     BANG !  the motion is quicker than anticipated,  but the smoke coils upward long before and the longing hiss of magic is dragged out.  the body beyond them collapses,  head lulling to the side while their blood turns to liquid gold. 

the sky is only air. the ocean is only water. the only freedom you will ever have is breathing, drawing this air again & again & again & again. You have to exhale, and it costs you something - you have to quench your thirst and it comes back again - there is nothing solid in being free, it is not a status to be achieved but an action to do. Free is an active status, and you worry you'll somehow forget. there are people who would control you. there are orders you could obey. you keep coming back to take this next breath, your own part of the forever-freedom of the sky, but sometimes you think to hold your breath. it is deceptively peaceful underwater. you don't know if you would notice it if you started drowning.