Work Text:
She is blissfully, and thankfully, alone. Some may mistake Aster for being lonely, or depressed, but quite the opposite. Rather, this state of existence only inside one’s own soul was a bliss in and of itself. Everyday life was like a cacophony of loud annoyances, an abhorrent mess of people and noises and trivial happenings that could define you if not managed properly and with strictness. But some things are of life in full purity, a true experience, such as autumnal rain pouring onto the grass and rivers flowing in the woods. Where some may live a dream defined by the collective, Aster found that true reality was spent with things that you loved, and defined by a select few small, precious moments among all experience. Indeed, you could love an insignificant raindrop falling down the window and, at the same time, find that you did not love your parents, or that your friends had stabbed you in the back. True love was only what you could accept into your void, clear of any worldly disturbance, without any regrets. Then, Aster shakes her head for a second, escaping her trance. She is, once again, next to her old oaken window, staring out into the clouds and the meadows. Then, startlingly, a small, tinny voice rings out from below her, a small, pixelated woman on a laptop meeting screen, shouting numbers, orders, and plans.
Time to get to work, again.