I feel... something very difficult to describe. A hint of the sun on petals. A tenseness, that same, still, abiding tenseness of crestwalk. A wanting to jump and fly away, to not be afraid of heights and discontent with less, to have a path well traveled. A wist that the trip might have a home to come to, and not simply staging grounds, the road its own home, one of green leaves and red, sunlight and shade, lushness and solitude. A longing to feel perhaps not always so slow, so muted, as I do now. A tremendous slowing of the flow of time; each week as a month, slow enough to watch each drop. An occasional dream of being alive. And still that dappled sun on skin and fur, calling me to stretch and wake from a long, long nap, from restless dreams both terrifying and wonderful to ... what?

It is so strange, to feel it not as a breaking this time. I always thought it would be, as it was before.

Spring seems like an appropriate time of year for such a feeling; spring in a land ever in springtime.



This isn't intentionally cryptic, but it's the best I can manage at the moment when I hardly even grok the referent.