#i love when nour talks to theo in basically poetry. always food for thought :)

[ingolds]

‘ in the wood, even songbirds must be survivors. ’

     they could see themselves growing old in the woods. for centuries, that was all they knew: how the pines reached straight and jagged towards gray skies, how the streams would froth louder when the ice began to melt, where rabbits would dart quick and light to avoid their keen eye. adjusting back to civilization had been vastly more laborious than embracing the craggy mountains and weeping ferns of the wilderness around them.

     “ it's not as cruel as you make it sound. the forest can be unkind, of course - most places are. ” they feel nour's stare on them across the clearing, glittering gold and thoughtful in the air purpled by the promise of the sun rising. theo drags their fingertips down dew-dappled leaves, listens to where the birds have begun to whistle above. “ but they're not survivors here. they're inhabitants. it's their home, right? ” theo muses, mostly to themselves. “ i'm more a survivor of the wood than they are. i came and somehow made it back out. they have no desire to leave. that's not survival. ”

     they glance sidelong at nour, watching where he trails curious fingers over lichen bursting over a whittled trunk. though he no longer holds theo in the breadth of his vision, they know his attention is still on them. they speak a little quieter, cicadas beginning to croon in the spaces between branches.

     “ to me, that's living - not surviving. they flourish here. there's a difference. ”

@indeath