sunday seven

[fiachairecht]

I know it says six but whomst is counting (me, actually) or more precisely whomst cares (not me, as it happens). Anyway, have the first two paragraphs of the Jordskott thing I have vague dreams of finishing before bed.

Ida does not wish she could speak, not really. The noise of the world crawls over her skin and under her bones, and she is not yet ready to join it. There is nothing she needs to add with her voice, not yet: nothing she cannot add with her art, colours blooming to life under her fingers, or her feet, marking careful trails through the green.

The world is very green, and very loud. Ida, she learned before she was ever asked to speak, is very silver and very quiet. It is a good balance, she thinks. A necessary one.

It's been four years and these girls and their lullaby still hurt me?