Icy announced that there was an AE holiday chat. Thirty immediately discovered the Night Before Christmas poem and dove into her room to begin a dramatic reading and prepare for the chat.

I was less enthusiastic. I want to please as many people as possible, and holiday gatherings are the worst for that. I want to be... Not awkward.

It's different for Thirty. She always has words, though she doesn't care for socializing. It's like she's written and I'm drawn. 

Nymph

No one at the ball with me has posted a second time. Why do we always get stuck with the ones who don’t reply for days, if they do at all? Why do I still like them anyway? Maybe they’d stay for something faster, shorter. 

The cold is deepening. The difference is noticeable between sun and shade. I avoid the latter, which has become easier as winter advances. I’m never very cold for long, but this makes it easier. 

I love the skies these days. Through the bare twigs of my forests, or in golden-grey clearings, I watch them change colors. The day most often shows half blue, half cloud, after muted peach dawns and hazy mornings, and ends with edges of purple and orange that I climb or fly to see more of. The nights stretch out eagerly past their customary borders. The stars are clearer, but the dark somehow seems darker despite them. That will change when snow falls.

I walk up to the peak of my cliff. Looking out to the grey waves below and the dark clouds above, I allow the wind howling to whip through my hair. I streach out my hand to the nearby ground, and a boombox appears, red and slightly digging into the grassy earth it's sitting on. It switches on, playing Girl by SYML. Closing my eyes, I lift my arms, feeling the direction of the sea breeze that carries the music far.

Girl, perfectly her...

I spread my wings.

Broken and hurt...

I let my arms fall to my sides, then step in twirls and spins, arching and bowing my wings like I would my arms in a single person ballroom dance, like Rogue does in her kitchen when nobody's looking.

Soft and asleep in the morning grey, shake off the night and don't hide your face...

A sad smile plays around the edges of my mouth. Dew on the green grass soaks my dancing feet.

The sun lights the world with a single flame...

Not today; not here anyway, it doesn't. I crack an eye open for a half-second to peek at the thick layer of clouds above me.

I want you to see this... I want you to see this...

I don't. I just want a friend. I just want somebody to climb through the portal to other realms I've found deep in Shining Cove with me. Sometimes I wonder why the Known is the way it is, cold and barren, slowly being eroded by the crashing waves. I stop dancing. The boombox switches off and disappears. Without looking, I reach out with my arms straight out. The sound of the waves fades out. No more seagulls. My feet still drown in dewy grass, but it's less tough and salt-encrusted. I open my eyes. All except the wet patch of grass I stand on, the Known has gone white again. With a silver flash of light and the sound of wooden chimes, a common nightingale appears. It sings a greeting and alights on an invisible tree's branch. I hear the rustle of leaves and the peaceful splash of a mountain spring. I step forward and reach out to touch the tree. It appears slowly, bark brown and old. It's an oak, and I remember the oak tree I saw in the passing memories of... Never mind that. However, that one was shapeless. This oak, my oak, has form. I watch as the tree presents itself. A ways up, a huge hollow bit in the shape of a dragon's gaping mouth yawns from amid the green leaves. More trees appear around me, and so does a coast. I'm still against a shore, but moss extends all the way down to the water. It seems to be freashwater. A freshwater ocean. I kinda feel like Nymph in this environment. I should call her up sometime. Maybe send her a pack of moonflower seeds... Hm. I don't know, and frankly I don't care much. I just think she'd be a good friend, if we ever cared to get to know each other. Speaking of moonflower seeds though, I guide a moonflower vine as it grows to wrap around the trunk of the big oak. Blackberries sprout at the foot of the tree, leaving only a narrow space to walk and climb up the tree. Now, in my new home, I sit down and listen to the birds singing, meanwhile thinking about which AEs I should approach to make friends with. So far it's a very short list.

    I’ve never thought to post in this thread, because I never looked at it, but now that I’ve read a couple, I’m starting to understand what it’s supposed to be like. 

Jericho

  I open my eyes, and see the busy streets, and the colorful, flashy images from the city below. Cars look like small ants from here, and people look even smaller. The black sky contrasts perfectly with the bright mess underneath my feet, and the stars speckling the darkness makes it seem like a dream. 

I wish I could enjoy this moment, a moment alone, with myself, doing nothing but sitting at the edge of a sky scraper, but I can’t.

Im worried. That’s my job, though. In his mind, I’m the one who always has to worry. But I feel something different. I don’t feel apart of him right now. 

I’m worried about being replaced. Being overlooked. Just another one of the AEs or AUs he has. He’s already been thinking of other AEs to make.

One of which is named Annabelle. I find her very strange. She signifies the violence and rage that he can carry, which is terrifying. Not only does a mental illness make the emotion so uncontrollable, I dont understand how she’ll help him.

His AEs, me and Sebastion, have to help him get through tough times. It’s strange, really, but I think that other CBers do the same. AEs seem almost therapeutic, personifying your strongest and most recurring emotions. 

Annabelle doesn’t seem like something that can help. She’s violent, insane, as I like to say. She doesn’t talk, either. He made her up when listening to Melanie Martinez and Twenty One Pilots, and Sebastion was totally on board with the idea of a sister. Of course he is.  

Sea Glass

I wander again, restless and unoccupied, to the shore. 

It is a cold day, as most of them are coming to be. Have come to be. I bring my coat. 

A tempting corner of frosted aqua juts up from the sand. I keep my hands safely inside my pockets. Viola? has complained lately of her knuckles drying and cracking. I will not risk it. I will stay warmer this way, too. 

My face has no pocket. I nestle my chin into my collar and turn halfway away from the wind, so that my hair covers one cheek and the other stays protected. I shift my feet together and stare at my boots. It is cloudy today.

I am too busy trying to stay warm to think or to move much while I remain here, so I return to the house and seek refuge in the attic. It is a dark attic, but spacious, and slightly chilly. If Nymph comes home this evening, we will feed a fire in the hearth all night, but for now I set to fidgeting in earnest and tracing my thoughts on the air. 

Something stirs between my lungs. I think. Viola? is not home, and will not be home for a few hours, having taken her leave just before I. I think some more, and let my voice spill forth. It seems more expansive than I remembered. It echoes slightly in here, reflecting from the walls. 

I sing for hours. 

Eris~

I am so desperately curious about these others. The AEs. They write the streams of conciousness beautifully, eloquently, poetically; they come from pieces-parts of real people. I read their words religeously, looking for a way into their worlds and thoughts, hoping hoping hoping that I will be found. That someone will look up and see me. See me. Not the girl who laughs with Cu and no one else, who follows her around like a frightened puppy, whenever I step out at all. How am I supposed to meet people in this place? Everyone already has their friends, has their 'ship', has their aquaintances and enemies. Do I leap out into an RP, untethered? Flounder around and get left behind, searching, searching for what? What do I want? Not a ship. Maybe a friend? Someone who knows me and understands. I'm not an open book, not a sweetheart. I'm angry and prickly, all glower and snark. I depend on it, hide behind it so that no one ever thinks I am soft. I am not dependant. I am not weak. I cannot be. But it's so hard to explain that you want a friend without appearing to crawl towards them on hands and knees. Without admitting weakness. I ache for someone I don't even know, someone who might not even exist. Where are you I cry out in my mind, face averted. Where are you? 

I'm not insane. I'm not sweet. I'm not genius or evil or stutteringly shy. I don't fit into either pillow fights or ballroom dancing. I'm just a kid with a half-shaven head and a metal leg who nobody remembers. I love flowers, organizing things, fog, well worn t-shirts, space, soft fabrics, cold weather, baskets. I like salty-savory food best, the color green, heights. I like to collect things like leaves and arrange them for people to find. I like growing plants from seeds. I like playing in the snow. 

I'm right here. Where are you?