Myth

(Image is from Made In Abyss, highly recommend!)


They tell tales of how the land used to breathe.

Birds would soar. Nature would grow, and destroy, and rebuild over and over. Animals would hunt to the rhythm of dawn and dusk.

Fires, blazing. Oceans swirling. Vast unknowns calling to you - unfathomable, unreachable - and yet you would follow their voice.

They tell tales.

The firelight, flickering, hits against the dull stone and rock. There are no birds here. No sun, moon, sky, nor sea.

Walls encase me. I know the lime coloured floor which so coldly bares itself. I know the ceiling, with cracks that break the monotony.

And I know the tales. Stories who reveal themselves through echoes of those who once were. Those who stood before me.

The firelight, flickering, hits against the dull stone and rock - and life.

Pictures and paintings that show birds soaring, nature growing, the rhythm of golden glow and scattered starlight.

My heart thumps.

My chest grows tighter and I feel each beat get louder and louder.

I know the lime floor, the ceiling, the cracks, all of it.

This… is something I don’t know.

This… is the voice that calls.