victims of { i n s t i n c t } // moth
Jan 10, 2015 3:10:03 GMT -5
Post by Stare on Jan 10, 2015 3:10:03 GMT -5
The first few steps are always unsteady, bare toes curling against the weathered wood of the pier as my legs try to stop seizing up against waves that never come. (Sometimes I think I was born of the sea, of the brine and the foam and clashing, angry tides. What else could explain how natural it feels to lean up against the gunwale and into the salt-kissed wind, breathing in the very thing that made men cross oceans in ancient times. Freedom.) It’s unnatural, isn’t it? To hate the land? To despise the swell of hills mimicking unmoving waves, to be annoyed with the dirt that always catches between one’s toes? You wouldn’t get dirt between your toes if you wore shoes, Ev, one of my sisters will say on occasion, and I always sneer. Call it stupid or silly or superstitious, even, but I’ve been convinced since I was very small that I walk best on land without anything on my feet.
The piers are a swarm of activity, but that’s how we like it. Faster trade and less chance of getting caught. I turn my eyes toward where the sun hangs low on the horizon, painting a path of fire over the sea. I’ve heard that in other districts there is actually meaning to the jumble of numbers they call a clock; here in Four, our days are forever tied to the sun. When it rises the night fishers come in and the sailors go out, and at sunset they rotate, never leaving the precious waves alone for too long. Now I see the frantic scurry of those who come and those who go - things are unloaded, reloaded, clutched against chests. I see ropes swinging and hear the call of voices layering upon each other into a familiar song. Looking up I see the familiar dance of sailcloth snapping and releasing in the wind. My lips twitch up into something that resembles a smile.
I’ve heard stories told of enchanting creatures who lured men to the sea with their voices. They hummed and sang in a way that made them forget that their lungs were filling with water, that their mouths burned with the salt of the sea, that they were dying. (Perhaps their song was what took my father from me so long ago.) I never needed siren songs to draw me to the ocean, though. It had a call all of its own, promising a life that I could actually live - a life in which my darkness was accepted. Welcomed, even.
The sea is the only place I ever feel loved.
My sisters swarm onto land like they have been starved of it, but I hang back on the pier, eyes darting between men and women, searching for targets. The appear easily enough - an elderly man bickering with his wife loses one of his nets, and I manage to snatch a snack from one of the handful of vendors that make good money off of the chaos of sunrise and sunset. Tossing the net up and over my shoulder I grin. Lil will scold me for not staying with the rest, I’m sure of it, but a new net might ease things up a bit. She’s always insisting that we spend time together, yet whenever I sneak off they never seem to notice until they stumble upon me on accident again. It doesn’t matter. I’ve never been fun and reckless like the rest of them, anyway, not in the way they want me to be. My ideas are as rotten as the thing I supposedly have in my chest and they know it, I think. It’s taken them long enough, but they’re finally starting to figure out that I’m different in the worst sense of the word.
As my eyes scan the crowd they light upon a flash of pale against sunbeaten skin and my eyebrows rise. He’s young in comparison to the rest of those who walk these decks, not much older than I am, and curiosity pulls me somewhat closer, balancing on the edge of the pier to get a better look. Someone knocks into me and I have to grab one of the wooden poles and swing around to keep from falling, swearing colorfully, before refocusing on his face. I don’t recognize him - not a surprise, I don’t bother remembering anyone but old family friends and the men we trade with - but there’s something about his expression that makes one eyebrow arc in interest. He looks uncomfortable. No, more than that.
He looks like he hates the sea just as much as I hate the land.
And then I can’t help myself, a smirk spreading over my features as I make my way toward him with one hand keeping the net in place and the other shoving into my pocket. My steps are still somewhat hesitant but grow steadier the closer I get. “Oi!” I call out. I don’t know his name, so I settle on the first thing that comes to mind. “Tadpole! The sea won’t bite, you know.” My eyes drop to my bare feet then, scarred by the times I climbed the jagged rocks in my youth, and my smirk grows into a crooked grin. “Well, not most of the time, anyway.”
The piers are a swarm of activity, but that’s how we like it. Faster trade and less chance of getting caught. I turn my eyes toward where the sun hangs low on the horizon, painting a path of fire over the sea. I’ve heard that in other districts there is actually meaning to the jumble of numbers they call a clock; here in Four, our days are forever tied to the sun. When it rises the night fishers come in and the sailors go out, and at sunset they rotate, never leaving the precious waves alone for too long. Now I see the frantic scurry of those who come and those who go - things are unloaded, reloaded, clutched against chests. I see ropes swinging and hear the call of voices layering upon each other into a familiar song. Looking up I see the familiar dance of sailcloth snapping and releasing in the wind. My lips twitch up into something that resembles a smile.
I’ve heard stories told of enchanting creatures who lured men to the sea with their voices. They hummed and sang in a way that made them forget that their lungs were filling with water, that their mouths burned with the salt of the sea, that they were dying. (Perhaps their song was what took my father from me so long ago.) I never needed siren songs to draw me to the ocean, though. It had a call all of its own, promising a life that I could actually live - a life in which my darkness was accepted. Welcomed, even.
The sea is the only place I ever feel loved.
My sisters swarm onto land like they have been starved of it, but I hang back on the pier, eyes darting between men and women, searching for targets. The appear easily enough - an elderly man bickering with his wife loses one of his nets, and I manage to snatch a snack from one of the handful of vendors that make good money off of the chaos of sunrise and sunset. Tossing the net up and over my shoulder I grin. Lil will scold me for not staying with the rest, I’m sure of it, but a new net might ease things up a bit. She’s always insisting that we spend time together, yet whenever I sneak off they never seem to notice until they stumble upon me on accident again. It doesn’t matter. I’ve never been fun and reckless like the rest of them, anyway, not in the way they want me to be. My ideas are as rotten as the thing I supposedly have in my chest and they know it, I think. It’s taken them long enough, but they’re finally starting to figure out that I’m different in the worst sense of the word.
As my eyes scan the crowd they light upon a flash of pale against sunbeaten skin and my eyebrows rise. He’s young in comparison to the rest of those who walk these decks, not much older than I am, and curiosity pulls me somewhat closer, balancing on the edge of the pier to get a better look. Someone knocks into me and I have to grab one of the wooden poles and swing around to keep from falling, swearing colorfully, before refocusing on his face. I don’t recognize him - not a surprise, I don’t bother remembering anyone but old family friends and the men we trade with - but there’s something about his expression that makes one eyebrow arc in interest. He looks uncomfortable. No, more than that.
He looks like he hates the sea just as much as I hate the land.
And then I can’t help myself, a smirk spreading over my features as I make my way toward him with one hand keeping the net in place and the other shoving into my pocket. My steps are still somewhat hesitant but grow steadier the closer I get. “Oi!” I call out. I don’t know his name, so I settle on the first thing that comes to mind. “Tadpole! The sea won’t bite, you know.” My eyes drop to my bare feet then, scarred by the times I climbed the jagged rocks in my youth, and my smirk grows into a crooked grin. “Well, not most of the time, anyway.”
we are drifting on a deep sea
and i can't navigate the stars like my father
oh we're drifting out to sea
into deep water
and i can't navigate the stars like my father
oh we're drifting out to sea
into deep water
