Another small snippet exploring my OCs, Ariel and Pasha. I have to say this might be one of my favorite things I’ve written in awhile.
Pasha had a bit of a complicated relationship with words. They were deceitful things and yet useful. Words were telling. They spoke volumes more than the speaker wished to convey almost all the time. Thoughts, feelings, the way they thought. In this way words were useful to those that knew how to listen. Pasha was sure very few realized how much they gave away with their words alone.
But they always betrayed the speaker. As soon as words were spoken they changed. The world, the essence, threads, and listener, all of them changed the meaning. Distorted, broke, twisted the words around. What somebody thought could not truly be conveyed in any language spoken. Words were poor. They were distracting and superficial. They were so focused on the self that nobody saw everything else.
People were so interested in their words, in what they spoke and wrote and read. They treasured these things and yet others discarded them. Found them disgusting, trash. Were insulted or impassive over the great accomplishments others felt for their words. It was humorous, perhaps even fitting, that others despised, hated, or never even cared about the others words.
All of this was why Pasha did not like to speak. He kept what he had to say short, his words clipped. He never had much to say anyway. He preferred to listen. He enjoyed mocking himself with the thought of what he once was. When he could hear the world speak, when the river and trees spoke to him and the threads that binded everything were plain to see. He mocked himself over the time he understood. The time that he was connected to everything and everything was him. The time when he, when the self had expanded and he had heard it all. When he truly listened. When he was a Listener.
In contrast was Ariel. Ariel loved words. He loved their sound, the act of conversing. He loved the connection, the attention. Ariel would talk for so long as there was somebody to listen. And when there was nobody to listen he had always thought that then he would simply spiral down into the confines of his mind and end up speaking anyway to the walls, trees, and dirt. Simply because what else would there be to do?
But now he focused on words. He focused on languages. He enjoyed languages. He enjoyed mastering them. There was something idyllic about how different languages changed the meaning and the people. Some said ‘I miss you’ others said ‘You are missing me’ as if they were left behind and were sad about it. Then there was the ‘I am missing you’ as if people were all puzzle pieces in the making of a person.
It was all so fun to him. The way a single word could change a sentence. Change the meaning. The way that everybody could interpret something differently. And the written word was almost as beautiful. He wished more people could write. Just for the joy of seeing their way. Some wrote with graceful arcs and beautiful curves. Others with purpose, dark and sweeping across the page. Then those that were quick, messy, words filling the pages like fallen sticks.
Ariel loved twisting his words. Riddles and trickery. He enjoyed the manipulation of words and, by consequence, people. He loved the feeling of simple power, the small swell of power and superiority it gave him to be able to control so much with so little effort. He filled the air with words, always saying something but only sometimes what needed to be said. It was a game to him, a ploy, a dance.