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mood |
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to be continued... |
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music |
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shpongle- tales of the inexpressable |
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In which a faery is born.
There are many stories as to where faeries come from. Some people say that they’re born like humans, others that they hatch from eggs. There are stories of faeries blossoming from flowers, or taking life from the moment a dandelion clock sheds its seed in the summer sun. The only thing known for sure is that faeries are all around us; in the music of the sunrise, in the dance of the ripples in the puddles of rain, hundreds, maybe even thousands of faeries; each carrying on about their every day business, as around them the bustle of society goes about their every day business; fucking, fighting, working, preying, dying.
But for the brief amount of time between first light and sunrise, when the majority of the world is sleeping, the paths of humans and faeries cross. The time of day when wings are earned, stories exchanged and bonds formed. For it is not always that a faery is born a faery; sometimes a faery becomes a faery, when - and only when- he or she is ready to bond with themselves, with nature, and give up the ways of mortal thought to run free with the other spirits and become one with the world.
My own wings were thus earned at six in the morning, one beautiful clear day sitting on a tree stump in a forest following my first outdoor party, feeling slightly damp and altogether very hazy.
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