Post by Morpheus on Feb 27, 2010 19:22:36 GMT -5
It was a lovely day. She supposed it was a lovely day would have been the proper thought, Morpheus mused. She was not one to really waste her time thinking on what was and was not a lovely day. Weather had never been of interest to her, she had never had the time for it to be of interest. Now? She had too much free time, and still not enough to really ever fully have “free time”, if that made any sense. There were never going to be a large enough number of minutes in the world for her to get to know herself, to really spend time thinking over the weather. Or rather, she hoped there would never be enough for such luxuries.
Time was precious and it was best spent on the King and his family. However, here she was, and there time was rushing by and she was not spending it properly. No, she had time off, free time. What was she supposed to do with free time? Stare at the sakura blossoms?
They were lovely. Some were a wealthy, sinful rich pink, while others were pale and saintly in their shade. The darker ones reminded her of the Queen’s hair, rosy and brazen, always drawing attention even when none was being sought by the woman whose head the hair grew from. Really, Morpheus should have been at the castle at the moment, following Helios, like a puppy on the heels of its master. But, if she had to, this was not a wholly awful way to spend her time.
Turning her eyes towards the sky, Morpheus watched as the clouds rolled past. If she was a woman of metaphor she might have said they were as tired workers returning from a hard day, drifting and heavy with the burden of exhaustion. However, she was not a woman of such thoughts; though, she did enjoy reading those linguistic plays, and as such she’d carried along a book. What a superb way to spend her fleeting freedom, she thought to herself weighing the rectangle in her hand, reading a book on philosophy and theories of the mind.
She must have been a strange sight there on the ground, legs tucked just off to the side, her body not completely comfortable with itself, let alone the position. Her neck was bent at a regal angle, held as taut as she could and still lean down to read. Shoulders were tense, but not to the point of utter discomfort. Juxtaposing the image of regality and tightly strung muscles was the soft white dress she had donned for the afternoon. The cotton danced, moved with the slightest breeze. Even if her dress understood comfort in the spring’s breath, Morpheus had no conception of comfort in this realm. Had she been in her quarters in the royal home, there she could have reclined languidly over a sofa and read, but here? She could not risk such momentary pleasures of the body.
If the King needed her she had to be ready like a rabbit to spring into action, to fly back to his side, and so she held her countenance. Staring at the yellowing pages of the thick text, Morpheus tried to drown out those around her in ink-driven thoughts. But she couldn’t, she was curious like a child. Everyone around her was so different, so full of difference. At first, when she’d woken for the first time into this body without a history, without memory, she had thought they were all the same. Hair colors, skin colors, those were different, but they were all clearly of the same species, they all shared the same basic range of emotions.
Recently however, she had reconsidered that original assumption. Now everyone seemed vastly different, worlds apart. It was beyond the surface, settled within the consciousness of each individual. And because of that difference, there was some insurmountable gap that lay between all of them; try as they might, Morpheus did not see any of them crossing the gap to make a pure connection with another. Her gap, she supposed was larger, more dangerous to traverse. Or perhaps it was smaller, because she was in many ways still a clean slate unaware of the truths of the world, she could be gobbled up by a stronger persona without even realizing it. And she considered maybe she had already been, but she tossed the thought aside, not wanting to imagine giving such violence to her King. She reflected him because he was a good person, a reasonable man to mirror. He had not taken her personality and melded it into his.
Her face was red, she realized, or at least she felt heat in her cheeks. Such thoughts were inappropriate and cruel, even if she attempted to revise such thoughts post-thought. She sighed; heavy, but not deep, the action constricted, her throat constrained by a chocker she never removed. Running a hand down the line of her profile, Morpheus focused her energy again on the dry pages of the philosophy she held in her hand. Words whirred in her mind, and she couldn’t fully grasp each of them, but they were there dulling the thoughts from before, giving her mind some semblance of “taking time off”.