into the light [...] open, poetry

    So she was accepted into the shoal pretty easily. She now officially stayed at this "tanglewood" place until further noticed. It was nice to have a place to call home finally. She basically just slept on the ground and subway cushions for the past few weeks she could remember (.... w-weeks?? .... how long was she down there? They didn't have clocks...). She was still on edge. Could you blame her? She didn't know any of these creatures. The only kind voices she knew were DJ_Hyperfresh, MC.Princess and the Captain. Hell, even Agent Three didn't speak like her! (At least... not that she heard. Perhaps the squid kid talked when she wasn't in her serious persona. That would make sense.) And to suddenly be brought in by a band of creatures she's never seen head or tail of before and just be accepted raised a few red flags. They looked like her... but they didn't have watery eyes or wiggly voices.... they didn't even have tentacles! (how did they hold stuff??)

  So Eight did what she always did when she was anxious and had time to burn. She wrote. She found a stray leaf of paper somewhere outside. It was wet and rotting, but it would work. She sat down, ringing a few drops of ink out of her own tentacles. She reached down with one paw, dipping a single toe into the ink, took a deep breath, exhaled, and began to write. She never was good at talking, so words were a blessing to her. She didn't exactly have... good... handwriting, but it was something; legible at least.

  "So this is it," I sigh, "The sun"
  You stand, confused. It was a gift
  But even gifts were sometimes left unwanted.

  ... It wasn't like she was unhappy with her current predicament. She was much more lax and tended to smile more but. She just wished for a bit more. Did that make her a bad person? ... perhaps. The octo-cat sighed, shutting her eyes for a few moments. Was it a want or need that drove her to unsatisfied unhappiness about her predicament? Was it her shyness; her unwillingness to open up? Or was it the darkness of the canopies and trees that shaded her heart to sorrow (well in that case why didn't she just go sit in a sunny spot, god eight your such a whiny baby)?

  She sat down and began to write again.
 
  Two becomes one, then one becomes three
  What is this rhythm? This unnatural flow,
  through the incantation, when will I finally be free?

  Eight stared down at the paper, one of her ears flicking. She's run out of space. She sighed, falling backwards and flopping onto her back. The paper caught on the wind, fluttering back onto her chest. She chuckled silently under her breath. Fine. It can sit there, she supposed. Eight turned up to the trees above.

....

  She was too stubborn to admit she was lost.

"SPEECH"

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tags

i o t a

[b]☾ IOTA [abbr="Oni speech, Oni thoughts, Oni reference"]x[/abbr] info [abbr="speech; self-reference; thoughts;"]x[/abbr] FIREBRAND ☾

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Poetry.

It was a type of literature that Iota enjoyed immensely, almost as much as prose. To her, poetry could inflect a message in the ways prose cannot; symbolism and rhythm come to mind when she thinks of ways that poetry can influence the thoughts of an individual. She never did do any writing, though, only reading, and sometimes even brainstorming poems in her head as she went throughout the day, observing the area and picking out individual pieces of the landscape to form an overall picture in her mind with words. She loved poetry about the landscape indeed; she was a sucker for anything nature-related. Her mind would be filled with spectacles of imagery that appeared in her mind as her emerald eyes drifted across the words on the pages.

[align=center][font=times]"Nature" is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse— the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity

— Emily Dickinson

This poem was, perhaps, her favorite of all time, its words sticking to her memories like glue, and its imagery burning into her eyeless thoughts. And, yet, she related with it wholeheartedly. Within the vast sea of nature that surrounded the Tanglers and herself, there is nothing more simple yet complex than nature. Nature consisted of so much depth, so much detail, yet none could comprehend it, including herself.

She was quite surprised to see Eight lying on her back, staring up towards the sky as a sheet of paper laid on her chest. Approaching the young octocat, she nodded in greeting, laying beside her, curious as to what the paper withheld. "You writing poetry over here?" She was quite surprised, and as an effect excited, to see that someone else in Tanglewood appreciated the art as much as she did. "I'd like to read it if you'd let me. Maybe... I could help you write some more?" She fumbled her paws nervously. She knew Eight was still new to Tanglewood, and the last thing she wanted was to discomfort her by seeming clingy. Perhaps she'd take her up on the offer, though.

Malphas- being an orphan former social-recluse- had no idea how to read, or write. He had grown up prioritizing his own survival, not enjoying himself, and thus he never learned. He had been pitifully alone for most of his life, but he didn't want sympathy. He had chosen that life for himself.

Now though, he was thrust into the public eye and he decided to roll with the punches, despite this nagging feeling in his chest that everything he was doing was wrong, that he was wrong, that everybody hated him. He pushed away his self-loathing thoughts as he saw Iota and the god-forsaken octupus girl- poor thing- and made his way over.

"Po-eh... what? Why are you defiling that leaf? What are you doing?" He had never even heard of writing, or poetry. He narrowed his eyes in confusion. "What...?"