Post by Briar Erwood on Dec 8, 2021 1:01:41 GMT
The Quiet Dark  | She hated the opera. It wasn't the singing or the prancing or anything to do with the art it's self. It was the lack of participation, the way she was expected to just sit and watch and not fidget and not talk. How her mother would reachover and put her hand on Briar's to make her stop picking at the dress she was wearing or the fan she was caring. It was being forced to not fall asleep while also not moving. Sometimes it felt like her legs were going to vibrate off her, to make a mad dash for freedom, only to be found hours later half way to wales. Then when she thought these things she was expected not to laugh at the image of two disembodied legs running down the road. It was madness, pute madness. And so it was with great reliefe that Briar stood after what felt like an eternaty sitting still listening to some grand love story that she found neither lovely nore grand. Still she knew this was not the end of the night for the great houses of england must converge now in the loby to talk of how amazing the show was and the symbolism or the vibrato. People would ask Briars opinion and she would be far to embarressed to answer truthfully which was that she was thinking about how cats are the only animal we domesticated that cleans themself and given how discusting the act of cleaning a cow must be you would think the cow's would have figured that out. No instead she would say something about how 'the music was truely breathtakeing' and hope no one asked specifics. Not that they ever asked specific. |
tag || @francescab || notes || here || ▲
