There are words which I have lived by. Words which have offered encouragement and vision, words which I had never understood, yet always knew the meaning. For I have fought carelessly, and sought out blood when it was but a warm liquid which should only surge more from another than myself upon the ground.
One never expects the fanciful and fantastic to occur anywhere outside of stories. Only in legends and half forgotten memories do Gods ride upon the elements and heroes roam the world. So many places hold a relic, or even a spirit from ages past, it would be hard to believe any claims of authenticity, even if the fruits of those words stared one straight in the face.
Violence was always the answer. The only one to be heard by those who would listen not to reason or plea, not to fact or fear.
When the wind dies down and the rains have gone, and the animals are yet to stir from their winter slumber, that is a silent time.
From a time long gone and a future made uncertain, such moments are few and far between, moments remembered even less when they have passed despite each being so profound.
When even the sound of thoughts dies down from whisper to nothings, and the breath and heart are again ignored by ear and mind alike.
So comes the silence without warning, quietly announcing its presence, and making itself known only when it has abruptly and long since made itself all there is.
So does it conquer moments in time, subltly and in its own way, too late to change or charge against, for it has already won.
But the silence is a conqueror which can be welcome as well as feared. A moment to embrace, reflect and allow to lead to dream.
She was always strange, that woman on the hill. A mother of many, she guarded her children behind the walls and hedges she’d grown and built for years.