( the line between dream and reality had thinned as of late, a sieve of river rock. under the brunt of her chaos, and under the slowly rolling influence of the dark hold (still just the start of her studies, it seems), what is a dream but a promise of another life? another universe taunted out of reach. near as much as it is a cruelty she cannot escape because it is not her own life she dreams of. she chases it out of grief. because she does not want to think too long on her mistakes in westview.
what could have been, and whatever her mind creates is easily slipped through the hairline fractures of her psyche; easily shaped into being as she gives chase to hope. and it can drag her under just as easily.
some people would argue that sleep is an escape from the waking world. wanda is not sure she would ever be able to say the same.
this dreamscape is a close reflection of what the landscape around her cabin has become, if a bit brighter and quieter both — cinnabar red skies masked under layers upon layers, like oil paints, each just as real and just as malleable as the one beneath it. there’s an orchard that stretches far, buds not yet in full bloom. she walks through it now, hands tucked into pockets as she nears the cabin.
she isn’t sure she’s dreaming — it feels too real and it doesn’t, all at once. but her mind catches on something, a scratch of awareness that isn’t her own amidst this place. it makes her still her steps, attention caught by his word just as much him, as a whole — singular as it is, voice settling all around her. he carves a tall figure cloaked in a coat like the darkest night, such stark contrast to the springtime blossoms, and the intensity of his mind nearly overwhelms her, surface barely breached and it makes her think of depthless waters and endless galaxies and she pulls away with nearly a wince.
her eyes never leave him. ) Who are you? ( sharpness curls around the words and even as she asks, some inherent part of her knows, the same way all endless are known and unknown, in the end. she recognizes her nightmares within him, she thinks. echoes of something there.
it befuddles her more and she isn’t sure what she should think. Instead she supplies an uncertain, if guarded: ) What is interesting?
lmk if any timeline details need some changing!! 🖤
what could have been, and whatever her mind creates is easily slipped through the hairline fractures of her psyche; easily shaped into being as she gives chase to hope. and it can drag her under just as easily.
some people would argue that sleep is an escape from the waking world. wanda is not sure she would ever be able to say the same.
this dreamscape is a close reflection of what the landscape around her cabin has become, if a bit brighter and quieter both — cinnabar red skies masked under layers upon layers, like oil paints, each just as real and just as malleable as the one beneath it. there’s an orchard that stretches far, buds not yet in full bloom. she walks through it now, hands tucked into pockets as she nears the cabin.
she isn’t sure she’s dreaming — it feels too real and it doesn’t, all at once. but her mind catches on something, a scratch of awareness that isn’t her own amidst this place. it makes her still her steps, attention caught by his word just as much him, as a whole — singular as it is, voice settling all around her. he carves a tall figure cloaked in a coat like the darkest night, such stark contrast to the springtime blossoms, and the intensity of his mind nearly overwhelms her, surface barely breached and it makes her think of depthless waters and endless galaxies and she pulls away with nearly a wince.
her eyes never leave him. ) Who are you? ( sharpness curls around the words and even as she asks, some inherent part of her knows, the same way all endless are known and unknown, in the end. she recognizes her nightmares within him, she thinks. echoes of something there.
it befuddles her more and she isn’t sure what she should think. Instead she supplies an uncertain, if guarded: ) What is interesting?