Empty paths entice her out of the bustling epicentric chaos into the gnarly twisted darkness of the barren forest. Her grotto awaits.
The fading and shifting vignettes locked inside create tornadic winds around her heart-center. To. Fro. Stay or go. Wolves howl. The creatura sinks back onto her haunches. Ready to leap. Spring forth by the beckoning of the lunar aura. Transformation to silvery ether; mere mist in the atmosphere.
Her heart is untamed, unbridled, and pure wilderness with a streak of nostalgia for the permanence and comfort only unity with another can bring. Opposing states of being. Conflicting at the core. See-sawing her feelings and jockeying her judgement between love-bound communion and wild-woman ethereal abandon.
Tethers are but mere suggestion. Where the aching spirit roams, so too do the totems of sacrament and covenant. Her shroud of conformity… obligation… is but a thin membrane that barely camouflages the badlands and caverns that command her soul. Though the cloak be delicate, nearly imperceptible to a discerning onlooker, the eyes and hearts of the sleeping masses cannot see what they do not believe.
This blindness, this lack of sagaciousness… or rather, apathy to the natural world, drives her further into the wilds with each passing new moon. She seeks her match. Her twin soul. Should the sought for not be found; her death and rebirth into the next dimension of awareness will surely free her from the lonely hunt.
She sinks. And waits.