With eyes that do not see, he looks to the sky, dreams of that which is there, waiting, just within reach and yet so far. The space above him is endless but still confines him within what he knows and what is within reach. Space may be ever without boundaries but for him, it is akin to finite infinity.

No barriers, no fallen trees, no rocks or bodies of water, nothing would stand in his way. He was meant to be free, the first thing that had ever come to him, while he'd been too young to remember anything else, was the sense of freedom that accompanied him wherever he was meant to go. He would roam as he wished, he was free to do as he liked. He would befriend all and he would discover their world, no matter what. Nothing would stop him. He would forever be roaming free.

All around her is a wall of pale pink flowers, they are everywhere her eyes land. She cannot pick up their scent but she knows it is soft and delicate. Beneath the flowers, there are wicked thorns just waiting to leave their marks on unsuspecting visitors. There is a sense of peace around her at the sight of those innocent flowers, at knowing that they can hide the fact that they clearly can protect themselves just fine on their own.

The breeze draws through the flowers and she knows, oh, she knows that this is her name, this is why she is here, in this place that is lost to time and space, these briar roses, climbing up the mountain wall, they are her and she is them. A mountain briar.

Drifting, falling, falling. Lost on the wind, seasons changing, fluttering.
Red, gold, brown.
All around, colours abound in all of the fallen leaves.

The sky is dark, though whether what surrounds her is sky or not is hard to tell; everything is dark. There seems to be no body attached to her will, to her mind, to her thoughts. All there is, is her presence and that of the darkness that surrounds her. At first, it all is terrifying, there seems to be nothing but the gaping mass of all-encompassing dark but, as she finds herself unable to comprehend much and as time seems to have no meaning, specks of light seem to come through the darkness.

These specks are hardly bright enough to warrant being able to see beyond the darkness but they still are bright, they are oddly warm and comforting. Still with no body to seemingly call her own, she begins to roam through these bright specks, going faster and faster as she rounds each one.

If, somehow, she were to wake from this dream-world and become one with it, she knows that she would find herself running through the stars.

Pale hours, crisp air. The silence of the swamp as most sleep still.
There is nothing better than a walk through a dewy garden on a sunlit morning.

Herbs, some drying, some fresh. Water in an upside down turtle's shell. The scent of something that has been warmed by the flames. The taste is bitter; the taste is sweet; the taste is like nothing you've ever hard. It does what it is meant to, however.

There is no rest for the weary, these berries, those herbs, those mushrooms, those plants, they will not gather themselves neatly and take their place into her things, certainly not.

Is is always quieter near dawn and when dusk comes, there is little sleep to be had between these two hours but it is a calling, it is a soothing thing and something she loves doing. It is simply part of who she is.

Be it alone or with the presence she can sense at her side, this shall remain, her presence will be around from dawn until dusk.

Darkness.

Darkness so dark that there is nothing there for him, nothing.

There is a voice in the darkness, however. Gruff as it is, the voice softens the more it speaks and the longer those words come to him, the lighter he feels.

The voice tells him of droplets of waters on the webs of spiders, how, when the light catches them just so, those droplets shimmer. The voice tells him that these droplets and their bit of light remind it--the voice--of lights in the skies at night, at times.

To the voice, they are akin to light that shimmers on webs. Beautiful but lost in the dark, to not be seen unless the conditions are right.

Perhaps the voice has a point. Perhaps darkness is all there is for him but he can still see and be seen, it only requires the right conditions and he will find those. He will make sure that one day light shimmers on webs.

Every rose has its thorn, does it not? Oh, it certainly does. While one might mistake the quietness of one for someone that may be easy prey, care should be taken to not make that mistake, it may come with an uncomfortable cost.

Truly, looks are deceiving and whether it be thorns and roses waiting to be found or petals and softness, there always is something more to be discovered if one is willing to give it time.

easing from the depths, the darkness, the wet; rising from the deep; escaping the forever, the fears, the sleep; be strong.

Mind wandering, thoughts taking hold, attention slipping.
Lost to time and thoughts, perhaps to be found later on, but for now, best left drifting into the deep.

A little step to the right, a little step to the left, one step back, two steps forward; a little more bounce, a little more sway, add a pinch of laughter and you've got one happy and pretty prancer.

Soothing sounds to help you sleep.
Stronger beats to keep you moving.
Sweet lullabies to ease your worries.

To one and all, the sounds may change but they will forever remain an inspiring song.