Post by Katpride on Jan 23, 2022 3:15:56 GMT
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Bright sunlight filters in through an open window, illuminating a cozy bedroom suited for a young child. Cubbies line the walls, full of toys and clothes and everything else an inquisitive young mind could want. A bed is set up in the corner, sheets tangled and blanket halfway to the floor. Currently, the inhabitant of the room is laying on the carpet, scribbling away on a pad of paper with an expression of utmost concentration.
Distantly, windchimes ring, bright and clear and melodic. It’s the perfect summer afternoon, the warmth from the sun offset by a light breeze that rustles the papers scattered across the floor and sets the windchimes off again.
“Hey, little me.”
The child looks up from their coloring sheet, tossing their crayons aside and scrambling to their feet when they look up to see their older self peering down at them.
“Hi!” They chirp, throwing their arms around one of the teenager’s legs and cranking their head back to look up at the much taller person. The older Lark huffs good-naturedly and pats their back, a fond smile on their face.
Steady hands pick them up by the armpits, and their older self hoists them up into the air, holding them at arm’s length. The little Lark blinks in confusion, but soon starts giggling as they’re twirled in a gentle circle and set back on their feet again.
The teenager sits down amidst the many papers scattered across the floor, adopting a casual sprawl as though bones and aching joints are far-fetched tales dug up from the archives of a distant, previously undiscovered land. “Whatcha drawing?”
The child clumsily plops down as well, treating their older self’s long legs like safety railings as they lean precariously over to pick up a paper from the ground. They hold it up with a smile, and Lark takes it, scanning the page and absently smoothing over the slight crumple from where they had grabbed it.
“It’s super heroes,” their younger self explains, breathlessly excited to show off their work. Lark nods seriously, although it mostly looks like scribbles. Sadly, their art skills did not improve very much over the years.
Little hands grab at Lark’s hoodie strings, nearly choking them before they indulgently lean forward, tilting their head to let little-them whisper in their ear. It’s a loud, much too spitty experience, but they’re trying their best, so the older Lark just grins and bears it. “You wanna go to the park?”
“Sure, kiddo,” they agree, tilting back. The younger Lark gasps as green light surrounds them both, dissolving into peals of laughter when they fall back against soft grass and not carpet. Lark sets them on their feet and they scamper off towards the playground without a backwards glance. The other Lark waiting at the location smiles and waves after them before disappearing to another point in the timeline.
In that moment, the world is sun-drenched and time has the consistency of honey, slow and sweet and forgiving. Lark rolls onto their side, and the grass beneath them tickles at their ankles and hands.
When they decide to get up, they’ll have grass in their hair and stains on their clothing, but that’s a worry for later. Right now, nothing in the world matters more than making sure their younger self is enjoying their youth. Besides, where could be safer than under the watchful eye of their future self?
As though sensing their thoughts, Lark glances back to be sure their older self is watching as they climb up one of the bendy metal ladders that every playground designer seems to think is a great idea and every child knows to fear. The older Lark grins and calls out to them, one hand cupped around their mouth. “You’re doing great!”
They’ve long since outgrown the need for approval from their future selves, but they know how much it means to the younger ones. They remember being small, back when they thought their older self was the coolest thing since frozen french toast sticks.
They know they aren’t the same Lark they once were. Every time they visit their past self, they’re reminded of how drastically time can change a person. Time catches everyone in Her net, and She drags them along until who they were is but a distant dream compared to who they are.
Identity is a tricky thing, and Lark counts themself lucky in that they never had to struggle very much with it. They had the benefit of knowing exactly who they would turn out to be, a person to point to and say, “Yes, that’s who I am. That’s who I want to be, and who I will be, given time.”
Well, that time passed, as all time does, and now they look at the scenario from the other side. They want nothing more than to save themself from the mistakes they’ve already made, to throw their timeline off its tracks and shape themself into a different person, but doing so would throw everything into utter turmoil. To change events… that’s something they can’t take back, and to be frankly honest they aren’t sure it’s something they’re able to do.
They tried, once. It didn’t work out. Sometimes they still wonder, though. Hope is a fickle thing, difficult to stamp out even when all of the evidence is stacked against it. Here, in the hazy heat of the afternoon, with the laughter of children filling the air and the breeze cool on their sun-warmed skin, they could almost imagine a brighter future.
Considerations for another time. Right now, they push themself up from the ground and wander over to spot their child self as they attempt to brave the harrowing gauntlet that is the monkey bars. They settle into their role gladly. They’re here to watch, and encourage, and give their child self everything they already had.
It’s what they have to do, but it’s also what they want to do. They wouldn’t trade it for anything. There’s no point in waiting for time to start being kinder to those in Her embrace.
They know the script, and they’re set to play their part faithfully until the curtain drops.
Bright sunlight filters in through an open window, illuminating a cozy bedroom suited for a young child. Cubbies line the walls, full of toys and clothes and everything else an inquisitive young mind could want. A bed is set up in the corner, sheets tangled and blanket halfway to the floor. Currently, the inhabitant of the room is laying on the carpet, scribbling away on a pad of paper with an expression of utmost concentration.
Distantly, windchimes ring, bright and clear and melodic. It’s the perfect summer afternoon, the warmth from the sun offset by a light breeze that rustles the papers scattered across the floor and sets the windchimes off again.
“Hey, little me.”
The child looks up from their coloring sheet, tossing their crayons aside and scrambling to their feet when they look up to see their older self peering down at them.
“Hi!” They chirp, throwing their arms around one of the teenager’s legs and cranking their head back to look up at the much taller person. The older Lark huffs good-naturedly and pats their back, a fond smile on their face.
Steady hands pick them up by the armpits, and their older self hoists them up into the air, holding them at arm’s length. The little Lark blinks in confusion, but soon starts giggling as they’re twirled in a gentle circle and set back on their feet again.
The teenager sits down amidst the many papers scattered across the floor, adopting a casual sprawl as though bones and aching joints are far-fetched tales dug up from the archives of a distant, previously undiscovered land. “Whatcha drawing?”
The child clumsily plops down as well, treating their older self’s long legs like safety railings as they lean precariously over to pick up a paper from the ground. They hold it up with a smile, and Lark takes it, scanning the page and absently smoothing over the slight crumple from where they had grabbed it.
“It’s super heroes,” their younger self explains, breathlessly excited to show off their work. Lark nods seriously, although it mostly looks like scribbles. Sadly, their art skills did not improve very much over the years.
Little hands grab at Lark’s hoodie strings, nearly choking them before they indulgently lean forward, tilting their head to let little-them whisper in their ear. It’s a loud, much too spitty experience, but they’re trying their best, so the older Lark just grins and bears it. “You wanna go to the park?”
“Sure, kiddo,” they agree, tilting back. The younger Lark gasps as green light surrounds them both, dissolving into peals of laughter when they fall back against soft grass and not carpet. Lark sets them on their feet and they scamper off towards the playground without a backwards glance. The other Lark waiting at the location smiles and waves after them before disappearing to another point in the timeline.
In that moment, the world is sun-drenched and time has the consistency of honey, slow and sweet and forgiving. Lark rolls onto their side, and the grass beneath them tickles at their ankles and hands.
When they decide to get up, they’ll have grass in their hair and stains on their clothing, but that’s a worry for later. Right now, nothing in the world matters more than making sure their younger self is enjoying their youth. Besides, where could be safer than under the watchful eye of their future self?
As though sensing their thoughts, Lark glances back to be sure their older self is watching as they climb up one of the bendy metal ladders that every playground designer seems to think is a great idea and every child knows to fear. The older Lark grins and calls out to them, one hand cupped around their mouth. “You’re doing great!”
They’ve long since outgrown the need for approval from their future selves, but they know how much it means to the younger ones. They remember being small, back when they thought their older self was the coolest thing since frozen french toast sticks.
They know they aren’t the same Lark they once were. Every time they visit their past self, they’re reminded of how drastically time can change a person. Time catches everyone in Her net, and She drags them along until who they were is but a distant dream compared to who they are.
Identity is a tricky thing, and Lark counts themself lucky in that they never had to struggle very much with it. They had the benefit of knowing exactly who they would turn out to be, a person to point to and say, “Yes, that’s who I am. That’s who I want to be, and who I will be, given time.”
Well, that time passed, as all time does, and now they look at the scenario from the other side. They want nothing more than to save themself from the mistakes they’ve already made, to throw their timeline off its tracks and shape themself into a different person, but doing so would throw everything into utter turmoil. To change events… that’s something they can’t take back, and to be frankly honest they aren’t sure it’s something they’re able to do.
They tried, once. It didn’t work out. Sometimes they still wonder, though. Hope is a fickle thing, difficult to stamp out even when all of the evidence is stacked against it. Here, in the hazy heat of the afternoon, with the laughter of children filling the air and the breeze cool on their sun-warmed skin, they could almost imagine a brighter future.
Considerations for another time. Right now, they push themself up from the ground and wander over to spot their child self as they attempt to brave the harrowing gauntlet that is the monkey bars. They settle into their role gladly. They’re here to watch, and encourage, and give their child self everything they already had.
It’s what they have to do, but it’s also what they want to do. They wouldn’t trade it for anything. There’s no point in waiting for time to start being kinder to those in Her embrace.
They know the script, and they’re set to play their part faithfully until the curtain drops.