4 Zi'da, 723
.
Time was a fickle thing, and it was no different for Kotton. The sky was still dark when he woke, the room long since lost its warmth from the previous evening. But he was not cold. Even without clothes to cover his body, the sheets a tangled mess on the floor, he was not cold. He stared up at the ceiling, a pulsing sensation evoking pain in one of his temples. He went to press on the pain to see if it would stop but his fingers were halted by a dense, thick protrusion that sprouted out from near it. He delicately placed his finger tips against the tender lump on the side of his head and slid them around the circumference of the wound, his movement making a sort of circle.
Kotton closed his eyes and pictured what his injury must look like, for he had broken his only mirror weeks ago. It was so silent the sound of a feather falling to the floor could be heard. It felt eerie. It felt cold. Like the room. Cold and empty and quiet. Kotton felt lonely. He shivered, but it was a shiver from the chill that ran through his body and not from the frigid air of the room; it felt like ice rather than blood pumping through his system.
He sat up, glancing down at his bare chest. The moon cast its rays through the curtainless window, causing his skin to shimmer with a fresh coat of sweat. The previous night came back to him in one fell blow: swigs of poisonous amber liquid, heated arguments, a woman, a man, a few knuckles to the side of his skull. Kotton groaned, sucked in some glacial air.
His neck was another beast entirely. There were kinks and knots and a whole assemblage of soreness. Was this also from the fight last night or had he slept on it wrong? He applied pressure to the area where his head met the rest of his neck and drew shapes with his thumb. The pain lessened with each passing moment of the massage, but it continued to smart with a vengeance.
He swung his legs so that they hung off the side of his cot. Gradually, he stood on wobbly legs. He quickly grasped the back of the chair that sat in front of the hearth. Steadying himself, he walked over to where his satchel lay against the wall. He gently crouched in front of it, before sticking his hand in the open pouch and withdrawing a notebook and piece of charcoal.
Until the sun occupied the sky, Kotton hoped that draining some of his thoughts out of his head and onto paper would help diminish the severity of his raging headache. But a tilt of the head and a gloriously resounding crack from his neck would be enough for now.
Kotton grew uneasy as he stared at the empty page. The blankness was what made him uneasy more so than his own mind. He needed to fix that. He sought to foil the purity of the paper by taking the stick of charcoal and running a thick streak up the middle of the page. The line ended before it reached the top, providing him with a brilliant idea.
He observed the streak, how it seemed to break the paper into two segments, two halves. Just like him. He had two sides to him: his down-to-earth, considerate and caring, contemplative, worshipper of everything reasonable half; and the side of his otherworldly and divine sense of hatred for himself that still remained without an answer as to why he felt that way at all. Somehow they were connected, though the connection itself and it's 'how' was still a bit foggy.
Kotton aimed to make the thick slash in the page beautiful, like the former side of himself and the way he wished the latter part would be. At the top of the line where it did not quite touch the edge of the paper, he drew a large triangle that almost reached the bottom of the page. At the centre of the bottom of the triangle, he drew a line. So far, this was the most pitiful attempt at a tree he had created, but its purpose was not so aesthetically important as it was of a self-healing nature. He added additional lines and patterns to the inside of the shape, figuring his drawing was as close an approximation of what a leaf looked like.
He nodded his head slowly, feeling the tension in the back of his neck sic daggers into his head.
The leaf is a part of a tree that always changes, he thought to himself, allowing a small smile to cross his lips. The leaf changes colours, has multiple forms; they fall, they grow. And as much as the tree seems to lose them, the leaves always somehow reappear attached firmly to its branches.
To the side of his drawing, Kotton wrote the word leaf, though his art needn’t a label. He wrote in tall capital letters, enhancing the letters so they stood out amidst the other lines on the page. Underneath the word, he scrawled in smaller font: to change.
People are always changing; it is how we grow. We may not like parts of ourselves, but if they are so inherent to our design, it’s almost impossible to get rid of them; they will always come back. Like the leaves of a tree.
Did people always go through the same changes as leaves did every cycle, every arc? Every season they changed colours, the exact same colours, and fell, though not always in the exact same way or in the very same place. Was it insanity- trying to do something time and time again, expecting different results, but not receiving them? Is that not what leaves did? Maybe the focus wasn't of the leaves changing and falling, but the journey they took when they did.
Kotton subconsciously started shading in a corner of one of the many leaves he had drawn. I believe people are less like clockwork and more like clay. They don’t fit into places like mere cogs and wheels, they mould while still retaining their original structure. Was he also like clay? Was he moulding into this current civilization or still resisting, wishing to stand out? Was he changing with each passing arc, growing and maturing, finding more clay to add to his appendages, to his blob of an existence? It made sense. He was like clay and also like a leaf- continuously changing, falling through the sky, reaching new destinations, improving on who he was at the core.
Unfortunately, his hobby was not soothing his headache as he had hoped it would. In fact, for whatever reason, it was doing the exact opposite. Clouds roiled between the walls of his skull, and the pounding in his temples grew louder like cracks of thunder in a sky shrouded by clouds wishing for a good cry.
You can only change yourself so much before you are no longer changing you but the person you’ve changed yourself into, he mused. And I’d rather be clay than a leaf. Insanity doesn’t suit me.
Kotton stared down at the black lines that covered the page of his notebook. As he stared, his vision blurred from a build-up of tears. A single droplet fell down his face, landing on the page and thereby smearing his drawing.
He picked up the stick of charcoal again, noticing now how small it had gotten from use. He redrew over the lines that had been smeared and uttered a deep sigh. He turned the page to the next. Everyone could use a clean slate; a second chance. Even him.
“How many second chances can I have befowe I have none left?” he inquired of the ceiling, hoping his message could penetrate through to all whom he worshipped. “If you can heaw me,” he prayed, throwing his head back and raising his chin to the above. “I’m tiwed. I'm tiwed of one of the sides of myself. I want to tuwn a bettew shade and fall with mowe puwpose. I want to collect as much clay as I can and mould myself into a bettew pewson.” He knew everything was done for a reason, everything had a cause, even if it wasn't in his favour; sometimes life was just out of his control. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a hand in how things transpired; that didn’t mean he couldn’t lean a certain direction as he fell from the tree; or search for soil that held more extravagant deposits of clay. He didn’t know everything, but he also knew that he didn’t know everything, and that offered hope to him for the possibility of opportunity in the unknown.
He rose from his seated position on the floor, stretching his feet so that he stood on the tips of his toes. He stretched his arms above his head, as though reaching for the sky. Maybe Ymiden, One of Rebirth, was listening alongside the others. Perhaps Ashan as well, One of spirituality and freedom. Kotton wondered what his mortal soul looked like to the immortals, and not just the ones that had blessed him- he knew they saw him as someone worthy. But everyone else? He wondered if they saw someone strong and confident, or just another lost individual, insignificant and dubious. As he looked down at his naked body, he wondered what he saw; not just as a vessel, but as an essence. What did he see in himself?
Kotton let his fingers rest on his pecks. He gradually moved them down his chest, over his rib cage and across his belly button. As his fingers gently fled the length of his body, the moon began to descend from the sky, newly replaced by a grandiose orb of light. Such as the astronomical objects in the sky, Kotton, too, had changed. Today was a new day and it held more meaning than the other new days of the past. Like a resolution not adhered to a change of arc, Kotton was intent on changing his colours and taking flight to a different section of the ground, one blessed with hearty soil and immense potential. He was sick of his daily routine. He was tired of the same ol', same ol'. It was insanity, actually, what he was doing, although he hadn’t realised it until this very moment.
As the sun continued to rise, Kotton began to dress himself. He slipped on his shirt and pants, cherishing the warmth of the soft material- the room was still awfully cold. He didn’t believe in set times of the day, just that at one point the sun reigns and at another does the moon. But time had finally stopped being such a fickle thing, and he thought to himself how nice a warm meal and good company would feel.
Kotton closed his eyes and pictured what his injury must look like, for he had broken his only mirror weeks ago. It was so silent the sound of a feather falling to the floor could be heard. It felt eerie. It felt cold. Like the room. Cold and empty and quiet. Kotton felt lonely. He shivered, but it was a shiver from the chill that ran through his body and not from the frigid air of the room; it felt like ice rather than blood pumping through his system.
He sat up, glancing down at his bare chest. The moon cast its rays through the curtainless window, causing his skin to shimmer with a fresh coat of sweat. The previous night came back to him in one fell blow: swigs of poisonous amber liquid, heated arguments, a woman, a man, a few knuckles to the side of his skull. Kotton groaned, sucked in some glacial air.
His neck was another beast entirely. There were kinks and knots and a whole assemblage of soreness. Was this also from the fight last night or had he slept on it wrong? He applied pressure to the area where his head met the rest of his neck and drew shapes with his thumb. The pain lessened with each passing moment of the massage, but it continued to smart with a vengeance.
He swung his legs so that they hung off the side of his cot. Gradually, he stood on wobbly legs. He quickly grasped the back of the chair that sat in front of the hearth. Steadying himself, he walked over to where his satchel lay against the wall. He gently crouched in front of it, before sticking his hand in the open pouch and withdrawing a notebook and piece of charcoal.
Until the sun occupied the sky, Kotton hoped that draining some of his thoughts out of his head and onto paper would help diminish the severity of his raging headache. But a tilt of the head and a gloriously resounding crack from his neck would be enough for now.
Kotton grew uneasy as he stared at the empty page. The blankness was what made him uneasy more so than his own mind. He needed to fix that. He sought to foil the purity of the paper by taking the stick of charcoal and running a thick streak up the middle of the page. The line ended before it reached the top, providing him with a brilliant idea.
He observed the streak, how it seemed to break the paper into two segments, two halves. Just like him. He had two sides to him: his down-to-earth, considerate and caring, contemplative, worshipper of everything reasonable half; and the side of his otherworldly and divine sense of hatred for himself that still remained without an answer as to why he felt that way at all. Somehow they were connected, though the connection itself and it's 'how' was still a bit foggy.
Kotton aimed to make the thick slash in the page beautiful, like the former side of himself and the way he wished the latter part would be. At the top of the line where it did not quite touch the edge of the paper, he drew a large triangle that almost reached the bottom of the page. At the centre of the bottom of the triangle, he drew a line. So far, this was the most pitiful attempt at a tree he had created, but its purpose was not so aesthetically important as it was of a self-healing nature. He added additional lines and patterns to the inside of the shape, figuring his drawing was as close an approximation of what a leaf looked like.
He nodded his head slowly, feeling the tension in the back of his neck sic daggers into his head.
The leaf is a part of a tree that always changes, he thought to himself, allowing a small smile to cross his lips. The leaf changes colours, has multiple forms; they fall, they grow. And as much as the tree seems to lose them, the leaves always somehow reappear attached firmly to its branches.
To the side of his drawing, Kotton wrote the word leaf, though his art needn’t a label. He wrote in tall capital letters, enhancing the letters so they stood out amidst the other lines on the page. Underneath the word, he scrawled in smaller font: to change.
People are always changing; it is how we grow. We may not like parts of ourselves, but if they are so inherent to our design, it’s almost impossible to get rid of them; they will always come back. Like the leaves of a tree.
Did people always go through the same changes as leaves did every cycle, every arc? Every season they changed colours, the exact same colours, and fell, though not always in the exact same way or in the very same place. Was it insanity- trying to do something time and time again, expecting different results, but not receiving them? Is that not what leaves did? Maybe the focus wasn't of the leaves changing and falling, but the journey they took when they did.
Kotton subconsciously started shading in a corner of one of the many leaves he had drawn. I believe people are less like clockwork and more like clay. They don’t fit into places like mere cogs and wheels, they mould while still retaining their original structure. Was he also like clay? Was he moulding into this current civilization or still resisting, wishing to stand out? Was he changing with each passing arc, growing and maturing, finding more clay to add to his appendages, to his blob of an existence? It made sense. He was like clay and also like a leaf- continuously changing, falling through the sky, reaching new destinations, improving on who he was at the core.
Unfortunately, his hobby was not soothing his headache as he had hoped it would. In fact, for whatever reason, it was doing the exact opposite. Clouds roiled between the walls of his skull, and the pounding in his temples grew louder like cracks of thunder in a sky shrouded by clouds wishing for a good cry.
You can only change yourself so much before you are no longer changing you but the person you’ve changed yourself into, he mused. And I’d rather be clay than a leaf. Insanity doesn’t suit me.
Kotton stared down at the black lines that covered the page of his notebook. As he stared, his vision blurred from a build-up of tears. A single droplet fell down his face, landing on the page and thereby smearing his drawing.
He picked up the stick of charcoal again, noticing now how small it had gotten from use. He redrew over the lines that had been smeared and uttered a deep sigh. He turned the page to the next. Everyone could use a clean slate; a second chance. Even him.
“How many second chances can I have befowe I have none left?” he inquired of the ceiling, hoping his message could penetrate through to all whom he worshipped. “If you can heaw me,” he prayed, throwing his head back and raising his chin to the above. “I’m tiwed. I'm tiwed of one of the sides of myself. I want to tuwn a bettew shade and fall with mowe puwpose. I want to collect as much clay as I can and mould myself into a bettew pewson.” He knew everything was done for a reason, everything had a cause, even if it wasn't in his favour; sometimes life was just out of his control. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a hand in how things transpired; that didn’t mean he couldn’t lean a certain direction as he fell from the tree; or search for soil that held more extravagant deposits of clay. He didn’t know everything, but he also knew that he didn’t know everything, and that offered hope to him for the possibility of opportunity in the unknown.
He rose from his seated position on the floor, stretching his feet so that he stood on the tips of his toes. He stretched his arms above his head, as though reaching for the sky. Maybe Ymiden, One of Rebirth, was listening alongside the others. Perhaps Ashan as well, One of spirituality and freedom. Kotton wondered what his mortal soul looked like to the immortals, and not just the ones that had blessed him- he knew they saw him as someone worthy. But everyone else? He wondered if they saw someone strong and confident, or just another lost individual, insignificant and dubious. As he looked down at his naked body, he wondered what he saw; not just as a vessel, but as an essence. What did he see in himself?
Kotton let his fingers rest on his pecks. He gradually moved them down his chest, over his rib cage and across his belly button. As his fingers gently fled the length of his body, the moon began to descend from the sky, newly replaced by a grandiose orb of light. Such as the astronomical objects in the sky, Kotton, too, had changed. Today was a new day and it held more meaning than the other new days of the past. Like a resolution not adhered to a change of arc, Kotton was intent on changing his colours and taking flight to a different section of the ground, one blessed with hearty soil and immense potential. He was sick of his daily routine. He was tired of the same ol', same ol'. It was insanity, actually, what he was doing, although he hadn’t realised it until this very moment.
As the sun continued to rise, Kotton began to dress himself. He slipped on his shirt and pants, cherishing the warmth of the soft material- the room was still awfully cold. He didn’t believe in set times of the day, just that at one point the sun reigns and at another does the moon. But time had finally stopped being such a fickle thing, and he thought to himself how nice a warm meal and good company would feel.
