![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Wishing Star
Jul. 5th, 2025 11:44 pmThe traveler can’t remember the last time they were a traveler. More of an outline now than anything. They watch the shadows and lights go by from buses and trains, quietly witnessing every inch of this vast land, and their connections slowly wear away.
They get around during the day, smiling and slipping by and never forming a real attachment. Cordial laughs dissolve into nothingness. There hasn’t been a destination for a long time. They live to see those dark silhouettes at night, the endless blurs of houses and stores and cars that contain moments of life.
Are they living? They don’t know anymore. This feels right. Maybe other things felt right at one point but this is what they’ve chosen.
~
The doll trembles on the floor, leaning against some piece of furniture in the corner. So many things prick at its senses, but it pushes them aside. Bruises and cracks line its joints, and it’s hard not to shake as it tries to hold itself steady. Voices echo around it, and it can see people talking and smiling somewhere across the room. Occasionally one of them will glance at its greyed eyes and look in curiosity, or pity, or desire.
Its owner must be around somewhere. Tonight it’ll be hurt, or used, or whatever else its owner wants. It hopes they’ll return soon. It gets lonely when it’s left like this, but it knows that this is its purpose.
Is it living? It doesn’t know anymore. This feels right. Maybe other things felt right at one point but this is what it’s chosen.
~
The girl sighs as she exhales under flickering neon, and the smoke is tinted red by the restaurant lights. The parking lot is alone after closing time, and all that's left is cracked pavement and weeds.
Things were fine today. Work was a good pace. Her boss has been talking about giving her a raise. She’s going to go somewhere with some friends tomorrow.
She’s been doing everything right. She goes to sleep on time. She eats three meals a day. She stays ahead on work. She maintains a good social sphere. She moves in autopilot, a pervasive hollowness growing in her chest. She thought if she did this long enough, she’d find her purpose. Met without answers, she metastasizes, carried forward by momentum, dreaming about the other shapes she could’ve taken. Shapes that chose the way they were broken.
Is she living? She doesn’t know anymore. This feels right. Maybe other things felt right at one point but this is what she’s chosen.
They get around during the day, smiling and slipping by and never forming a real attachment. Cordial laughs dissolve into nothingness. There hasn’t been a destination for a long time. They live to see those dark silhouettes at night, the endless blurs of houses and stores and cars that contain moments of life.
Are they living? They don’t know anymore. This feels right. Maybe other things felt right at one point but this is what they’ve chosen.
~
The doll trembles on the floor, leaning against some piece of furniture in the corner. So many things prick at its senses, but it pushes them aside. Bruises and cracks line its joints, and it’s hard not to shake as it tries to hold itself steady. Voices echo around it, and it can see people talking and smiling somewhere across the room. Occasionally one of them will glance at its greyed eyes and look in curiosity, or pity, or desire.
Its owner must be around somewhere. Tonight it’ll be hurt, or used, or whatever else its owner wants. It hopes they’ll return soon. It gets lonely when it’s left like this, but it knows that this is its purpose.
Is it living? It doesn’t know anymore. This feels right. Maybe other things felt right at one point but this is what it’s chosen.
~
The girl sighs as she exhales under flickering neon, and the smoke is tinted red by the restaurant lights. The parking lot is alone after closing time, and all that's left is cracked pavement and weeds.
Things were fine today. Work was a good pace. Her boss has been talking about giving her a raise. She’s going to go somewhere with some friends tomorrow.
She’s been doing everything right. She goes to sleep on time. She eats three meals a day. She stays ahead on work. She maintains a good social sphere. She moves in autopilot, a pervasive hollowness growing in her chest. She thought if she did this long enough, she’d find her purpose. Met without answers, she metastasizes, carried forward by momentum, dreaming about the other shapes she could’ve taken. Shapes that chose the way they were broken.
Is she living? She doesn’t know anymore. This feels right. Maybe other things felt right at one point but this is what she’s chosen.
