freedom. it is a blessed thing; and yet who is truly free? the crazy man, with his bent and grooved walking stick, meandering his way slowly through the countryside is free. the young girl, innocent but unruly, tied down by commitement, indirectly refused the beauty of life is not free. and yet we wish not to be crazy, we ridicule the crazy man, and take no time to notice the deep wrinkles carved through years of freedom through his face. how rustic he appears, how his smile lights up his whole face as he watches the summer sun rise from the darkest depths of the world. we wish to be young again, we wish to retrace our steps and find ourselves with golden locks and a skipping step, and all the potential the world can hand you on a silver platter.
then one day we find it out; the crazy are truly free, for they do not care what other's think, and simply adapt to their own preferances. to not be crazy is to not be free.
remember that next time you judge someone on their appearance, and ridicule them for their actions.

------------------

the contact she shares with this gentle giant for but a moment is elicit, a comforting glow returning instantaneously to her features, his gaze met and mingled with. it had taken a while for her to adapt to his dependance on touch, but once such a strong bond was formed it was welcomed by her. a mask? nay, no disguise, for around him she needed none. this was herself, and yet part of her he had yet to venture into. if he asked on such a subject whatever misgivings she had would undoubtedly would be revealed, and she had made a promise to herself not to evade the truth if confronted. her demeanor prevented it, her polite nature forbidded it. they rest poll against poll for a short while, then, as he turns she springs after him, striding toward his side. she reaches out, nape fully extended, and plants a tagging nip on his flank. with that she elevates her anterior, pirouetting and lithely sprinting away, a victorious radiance in her stride.

to his exigent sonanced squeal her reaction is mixed. at first her direction changes gradually, circling in a wide arch, suspicious of a lure eventuating in his second tag, and yet concerned for the blantant urgency that his squeal contained. the end of such an arch was never finished, the semi circle abruptly cut off as her bearing changes without warning, a look of pure wonderment cascading gradually throughout her features. the fragile canter she had travelled at is slowed to a brisk trot, taking her figure speedily to his side, her laughter stifled for his own pride's sake. her speech goes unchecked, unprocessed. it was spontaneous times like these that her manners and proper attitude failed;

"glory hallelujiah, goblin, what happened here!"

she circled the two trees, their trunks appearing close together now that they housed his massive form, and yet they could've easily fooled him of their width's distance. quickly she assesses the situation, catching his eye whilst she continues to circle, trying to find a way out for him. her gaze does not house the somber concern of her voice, and a definite spark of amusement lingers ritchly in her upward angled gaze;

"i cannot fathom how the hell we're going t'get you out of here! lordee, you seem good and stuck..."

and now her tone turns thoughtful, the laughter still creasing her eyes, and gradually spreading to her lips.

"perhaps if...."

if she had an eyebrow it would be pitched skyward, sardonic and regalant. her stance changes, bracing her muscles against some unspoken thought, a plan menacing her caution, and evoking her hopeful side.

"hmmmmm..."

who had ever heard her speak such an uncharacterized word as 'hmmmmm'? noone, count yourself lucky my boy! and we shall have to wait and see what this wee rumination forms into.

It is a detrimental moment when you despair of the world.