77 Ymiden, 724
.
So much had happened since the last several trials. Kotton had found himself out of food and with no additional money to purchase anything other than basic cabbage and cans of lentils. Spirit had run away, though not for the first time, entering Kogtton into a state of panic he had no extra energy to use, but had nonetheless ensued in the chase to find her and thankfully had after several hours. Imogen wasn’t eating much, which relayed to him the possibility that she was nearing her end of life. And Twig was dishing out insults and remarks amongst other obvious signs that insinuated his desire to leave.
“So what do you want?” Kotton asked. He was out of breath, discombobulated and not entirely in the moment after having tried to collect all his eggs so they were in one basket.
“I guess,” Twig began with a shrug. He looked at the walls of Kotton’s house, admiring his feeble attempt at decorating, though most of the walls were empty without anything more than their original paintwork. “I guess, I’m ready to move on.”
Kotton rose from his seat on the couch, retracted his petting hand from Imogen’s coarse fur and tried not to think about the weakness of his own legs, which shook beneath him as he attempted to stand. There was incontinence in his eyes, which spewed tears he wished would evaporate on demand before anyone could see them. But Twig did.
“I appreciate you helping me back on my feet. I really do, but I need to explore the world on my own, learn to live independently and find my way without anyone’s guidance. I’m old enough. I’ve learned enough. And I am far more capable than you think I am.”
His words weren’t meant to hurt, but they did anyway. Kotton fought to consolidate his tears so he could at least appear more dignified, at least more than he felt. But he understood. He really did. He had felt the same way when leaving his adoptive father’s place to seek for his own place of residence.
“I hope you do well,” the young man said with a half-hearted smile. He really didn’t want Twig to go, but he knew that this was a very important part of life. People started out young, were meant to be guided, until ultimately let go into the world given their intelligence and ability to care for themselves.
“Will you see me again?” he asked with more quiver to his voice than he wanted.
Twig looked back at him and gave a solemn smirk. “Of course.”
And that was that.
The living room felt ghostly still after that, which wasn’t good for Kotton’s mental state at all. He needed to do something, what with his hands, his eyes, his brain, he wasn’t sure. He just needed to occupy his time and every sensation that screamed at him so that he wouldn’t sit stagnant with the sense of abandon.
To his left was his journal and to his right was what he had last been working on in terms of needlecraft. He wasn’t trying to stitch a hole or mend a rip in any pair of jeans or what have you. There was, instead, the notion of creating a small object akin to the likes of a child’s toy. He had started to teach himself the ways of the cross stitch- a very difficult method where two stitches were completed in an "X" in order to provide a more sturdy finish. He had already gone over the more basic, and ever so easy stitch that was the running stitch, but had found more enjoyment in engaging his mind in additional stimulation. This exact moment most definitely called for additional stimulation; he didn’t want to think or dwell or wonder about anything that had just happened even if that was best for someone needing to grieve.
He found his piece and began to move his hands in and out. In and out his fingers sought to drive a Purl stitch, a stitch essential to creating this child’s toy he had so fiercely set out to create. The Purl stitch was created by the right hand needle going into the back of the stitch on the left hand needle before it wound itself around the yarn just before slipping the left stitch over and taking it off the left needle. This seemed to magically transfer it to the right hand needle, which was more progress than he had seemed to make in weeks. Maybe the grief he had been struck with helped him better his ability to needlecraft. Or maybe he was just trying to bide time until his emotions got the better of him.
Such as was assumed, a minute or two expired before the young man anticipated feelings of boredom and swiftly drew to the depression that had so far repressed itself. Twig was gone. He had taken him in, cooked for him, nurtured him, made sure he was warm enough by the fire with a surplus of blankets. And he was just gone. He left.
Resentment hit him full blast in the course of a couple seconds. Had he been a terrible host? Was his caregiving skill so inept so as to cause the one he tried so hard to care for to leave? He was eternally dubious about any and every action he made. But reason finally integrated itself into his hyperventilation. No, he had tended to his guest. He had given him treatment and adequate bedrest. He had tried to incite interest in the young man to do anything other than simply meld into the cushions and pillows that were provided for him. He had done a good job.
It was just time.
Like it had been time for him to fly the coops’ nest of his father’s house.
Was this what it felt like to experience empty nest syndrome? His father had explained it to him once, though he hadn’t been the greatest of listeners at the time. But now it made sense. Empty Nest Syndrome, at least what he remembered it to be, was a psychological sense of loss or grief that is encountered by the parents when the last child leaves the home. Kotton was no parent by any means, but this particular phenomena reigned truer than he liked it to.
It took a while for him to undergo every stage of grief there was- and he was no stranger to it since he had been the person to witness another's' progress through those exact stages of grief. It didn’t make it any easier though. It actually made him feel a bit pitiful. He hadn’t lost anyone per se, at least not to death. He had simply been removed from someone’s existence, someone who chose to seek out life in an independent fashion.
Maybe Kotton needed to seek out some sort of removal of himself from his everyday routine. Maybe he needed to find himself in a place other than where he lived, chained to Spirit and Imogen, to his job he viewed as being so constrained to. Maybe he needed to jostle the cards of his hand so that he could enjoy what it was like to be someone different; a better man, a more adventurous man; a man he hadn’t had the privilege of becoming since his mind had been so focused on becoming something he thought he wanted to become.
During a fit of hypertension and hyperventilation, Kotton’s subconscious devoted itself to the direction of meditation. More specifically box breathing. Box breathing refers to the fact that a box has four sides. This is a concept that is represented by one’s breathing whilst slowly counting to four for a total of four times. Four counts of breathing in, four counts of holding your breath, four counts of exhaling and four more counts of holding after your exhale.
Kotton thought he could do that, but his assumption would only be made true if he tried. So he did. Inwards of his breath he counted to four, then he held it. Shortly after he followed it by exhaling his breath for an additional four counts before holding his breath again. He was trying to fight the parasympathetic nervous system of his that so achingly wanted him to fail. It wanted him to suffocate; it wanted him to drown via his own deoxygenated breath work. But with this method, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t dare lose to his own body. And if he felt like he was about to, he would instinctively elicit another meditative technique that would ensure his survival.
The meditative technique? Transcendental meditation. He wasn’t familiar with the term, but he had textbooks that had proclaimed, nay, declared and even demonstrated such things all so that he was prepared enough to handle those certain issues that required a focused mind and equally attentive intelligence.
Once he had reached the baseline that was his inceptive level of calm, he took a staggering breath. And an extra breath. Even another one as he listened to his intuition as to how he should continue about not only his day, but his life. He was eager to explore other options and those options consisted less of what to cook, what to train and what to clean. Those options explored the realms of more psychological, physiological and magically philosophical components that were made unwarranted, even redundant in an indispensable nature.
Against all formulates of theory, happenstance and coincidence, Kotton was left with nothing other than his journal, to which he wrote down any and every thing that went on during his time observing. Maybe he was too drunk, perhaps he was just unsure, but more than anything he was on the edge of trying to understand what had just happened.
“So what do you want?” Kotton asked. He was out of breath, discombobulated and not entirely in the moment after having tried to collect all his eggs so they were in one basket.
“I guess,” Twig began with a shrug. He looked at the walls of Kotton’s house, admiring his feeble attempt at decorating, though most of the walls were empty without anything more than their original paintwork. “I guess, I’m ready to move on.”
Kotton rose from his seat on the couch, retracted his petting hand from Imogen’s coarse fur and tried not to think about the weakness of his own legs, which shook beneath him as he attempted to stand. There was incontinence in his eyes, which spewed tears he wished would evaporate on demand before anyone could see them. But Twig did.
“I appreciate you helping me back on my feet. I really do, but I need to explore the world on my own, learn to live independently and find my way without anyone’s guidance. I’m old enough. I’ve learned enough. And I am far more capable than you think I am.”
His words weren’t meant to hurt, but they did anyway. Kotton fought to consolidate his tears so he could at least appear more dignified, at least more than he felt. But he understood. He really did. He had felt the same way when leaving his adoptive father’s place to seek for his own place of residence.
“I hope you do well,” the young man said with a half-hearted smile. He really didn’t want Twig to go, but he knew that this was a very important part of life. People started out young, were meant to be guided, until ultimately let go into the world given their intelligence and ability to care for themselves.
“Will you see me again?” he asked with more quiver to his voice than he wanted.
Twig looked back at him and gave a solemn smirk. “Of course.”
And that was that.
The living room felt ghostly still after that, which wasn’t good for Kotton’s mental state at all. He needed to do something, what with his hands, his eyes, his brain, he wasn’t sure. He just needed to occupy his time and every sensation that screamed at him so that he wouldn’t sit stagnant with the sense of abandon.
To his left was his journal and to his right was what he had last been working on in terms of needlecraft. He wasn’t trying to stitch a hole or mend a rip in any pair of jeans or what have you. There was, instead, the notion of creating a small object akin to the likes of a child’s toy. He had started to teach himself the ways of the cross stitch- a very difficult method where two stitches were completed in an "X" in order to provide a more sturdy finish. He had already gone over the more basic, and ever so easy stitch that was the running stitch, but had found more enjoyment in engaging his mind in additional stimulation. This exact moment most definitely called for additional stimulation; he didn’t want to think or dwell or wonder about anything that had just happened even if that was best for someone needing to grieve.
He found his piece and began to move his hands in and out. In and out his fingers sought to drive a Purl stitch, a stitch essential to creating this child’s toy he had so fiercely set out to create. The Purl stitch was created by the right hand needle going into the back of the stitch on the left hand needle before it wound itself around the yarn just before slipping the left stitch over and taking it off the left needle. This seemed to magically transfer it to the right hand needle, which was more progress than he had seemed to make in weeks. Maybe the grief he had been struck with helped him better his ability to needlecraft. Or maybe he was just trying to bide time until his emotions got the better of him.
Such as was assumed, a minute or two expired before the young man anticipated feelings of boredom and swiftly drew to the depression that had so far repressed itself. Twig was gone. He had taken him in, cooked for him, nurtured him, made sure he was warm enough by the fire with a surplus of blankets. And he was just gone. He left.
Resentment hit him full blast in the course of a couple seconds. Had he been a terrible host? Was his caregiving skill so inept so as to cause the one he tried so hard to care for to leave? He was eternally dubious about any and every action he made. But reason finally integrated itself into his hyperventilation. No, he had tended to his guest. He had given him treatment and adequate bedrest. He had tried to incite interest in the young man to do anything other than simply meld into the cushions and pillows that were provided for him. He had done a good job.
It was just time.
Like it had been time for him to fly the coops’ nest of his father’s house.
Was this what it felt like to experience empty nest syndrome? His father had explained it to him once, though he hadn’t been the greatest of listeners at the time. But now it made sense. Empty Nest Syndrome, at least what he remembered it to be, was a psychological sense of loss or grief that is encountered by the parents when the last child leaves the home. Kotton was no parent by any means, but this particular phenomena reigned truer than he liked it to.
It took a while for him to undergo every stage of grief there was- and he was no stranger to it since he had been the person to witness another's' progress through those exact stages of grief. It didn’t make it any easier though. It actually made him feel a bit pitiful. He hadn’t lost anyone per se, at least not to death. He had simply been removed from someone’s existence, someone who chose to seek out life in an independent fashion.
Maybe Kotton needed to seek out some sort of removal of himself from his everyday routine. Maybe he needed to find himself in a place other than where he lived, chained to Spirit and Imogen, to his job he viewed as being so constrained to. Maybe he needed to jostle the cards of his hand so that he could enjoy what it was like to be someone different; a better man, a more adventurous man; a man he hadn’t had the privilege of becoming since his mind had been so focused on becoming something he thought he wanted to become.
During a fit of hypertension and hyperventilation, Kotton’s subconscious devoted itself to the direction of meditation. More specifically box breathing. Box breathing refers to the fact that a box has four sides. This is a concept that is represented by one’s breathing whilst slowly counting to four for a total of four times. Four counts of breathing in, four counts of holding your breath, four counts of exhaling and four more counts of holding after your exhale.
Kotton thought he could do that, but his assumption would only be made true if he tried. So he did. Inwards of his breath he counted to four, then he held it. Shortly after he followed it by exhaling his breath for an additional four counts before holding his breath again. He was trying to fight the parasympathetic nervous system of his that so achingly wanted him to fail. It wanted him to suffocate; it wanted him to drown via his own deoxygenated breath work. But with this method, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t dare lose to his own body. And if he felt like he was about to, he would instinctively elicit another meditative technique that would ensure his survival.
The meditative technique? Transcendental meditation. He wasn’t familiar with the term, but he had textbooks that had proclaimed, nay, declared and even demonstrated such things all so that he was prepared enough to handle those certain issues that required a focused mind and equally attentive intelligence.
Once he had reached the baseline that was his inceptive level of calm, he took a staggering breath. And an extra breath. Even another one as he listened to his intuition as to how he should continue about not only his day, but his life. He was eager to explore other options and those options consisted less of what to cook, what to train and what to clean. Those options explored the realms of more psychological, physiological and magically philosophical components that were made unwarranted, even redundant in an indispensable nature.
Against all formulates of theory, happenstance and coincidence, Kotton was left with nothing other than his journal, to which he wrote down any and every thing that went on during his time observing. Maybe he was too drunk, perhaps he was just unsure, but more than anything he was on the edge of trying to understand what had just happened.