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Standing Tall by family_staralternate_emailYamaDora

posted last year, edited last year

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑢𝑟...
𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑑, ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑠ℎ.
𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑢𝑝 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒...
𝐼 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒.

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Weekly illustration 2025: 8/52

Basalt my old beloved.

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Watercolor, gouache, pigment liner, colored pencil and white gel pencil, 6-ish hours.

anthro art basalt character concept gouache illustration original painting pillar stone traditonal watercolor watercolour

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EndlesslyThe stars are falling from the sky and I do not know why; are they escaping the blackest void that has spread across the heavens or are they tired of shedding tears to the world below that is now full of misery? The sight of their departure is beautiful nonetheless and when I shift my gaze away from the heavens and look back at you, I can see how the starlight is reflected from your glazed eyes, your body motionless as you wait for the sign that makes our bodies move like puppets controlled by strings. It seems like tonight you do not remember our earliest memories; I can see it from the way you are looking at me. No matter how many times I experience it, it always feels like a stab to the heart. I do not know if it is better this way, I am being torn apart anyway. Either we both retain our memories and are forced to face each other in the battlefield or one of us does not remember the other and thus only sees an enemy that has to be defeated while the other one is suffering from an unbearable heartache no one should ever have to endure. It never gets easier. But this is how our lives are, this is how it has been for a thousand years. Everything around us is dead and still, we remain. The soil under our feet has been lifeless for centuries, completely dry and cracked and nothing can grow from it. There are a few dead trees standing, like dry corpses, their branches like the fingers of the deceased as they desperately reach for the uncaring sky, begging for something, a rain or a sunshine, that would rejuvenate their withered carcasses. But the heavens ignore their silent cries. The trees here are the last ones remaining of a beautiful landscape before the war destroyed and butchered it all. Now they are nothing more but mementos of the days when everything was well. Winds play with their branches, twisting them, clinging onto them like mischievous spirits, not letting their dried-up corpses rest in peace. Tonight, however, the winds are in a different kind of mood. They are blowing across the vast field of nothingness in an ominous way and I can hear them whispering. They want blood, they want misery. I do not know what kind of sadistic glee they will gain from what is about to transpire here, but they will get what they wished for. With the vile winds came legions of soldiers of the past, groups of people I have seen for the past thousand years, but whom I cannot remember anymore. In my eyes, their bodies are translucent and their facial features have been smudged like ink stains. I simply do not recognize who they are anymore. Perhaps that is how they perceive me, maybe I am like a ghost to them, too. We are all supposed to be dead and gone now, and yet, here we are. Legions of ghostly soldiers have gathered behind your back and without looking, I know that I have comrades behind my back as well. We are all standing here, silent and motionless, waiting for the sign. Soon it comes: a blast of an ancient horn rushes throughout the battlefield, reaching every corner. The battle will begin and troops of soldiers who have spent a thousand years fighting the same war over and over again are engaging in a conflict once more, and some of them have forgotten why they even are here and what they are fighting for. But I know that losing your memories completely will not give you salvation. A luxury like a free will is something we do not have. Countless times I have raised my weapon against you and it just keeps getting harder – except on those days when I do not remember you. I do not want to do this anymore! But no matter how much I have begged or demanded this to end, it never does. My body is moving on its own, swinging my weapon, causing pain to you and every time my blade cuts your flesh, it feels like I just got cut, too. I never wanted to be part of this war and neither did you. The ancient mad lords forced us into this; they called it a holy war that would purify the land. But which side was the wicked and which was the righteous? There was no answer to that to begin with, the lords just wanted an excuse to steal the lands from the other one. This never was a holy war; it was a cursed one. We are still here, in the middle of a senseless battle, and where are the lords now? Have they died or just abandoned us, forcing us to repeat the war endlessly, unable to break out of this cycle? Just like our memories, the battlefield itself is flickering. It is unstable, a lot like our minds, and is unable to stay in its current state. Like ripples in time, flashes of various shapes of the field are echoing from the past, not sure which form to take. We can see past battles through the flickering and we are dancing macabrely together with the ghosts of our former selves. We will keep fighting even when our bodies start to break down. When do we stop? I do not know. Maybe when all of it is too much for a mortal mind to take and we get consumed by madness. Maybe when the land tries to reset itself and as a byproduct, so do we. Or maybe when whoever is pulling the strings gets tired. It definitely is not death that grants us a moment of rest and soothes our restless and rotten souls. Ah, how I see death as a friend… However, I have come to the conclusion that the world will die before we do.trophy