Thursday night with a bottle of Old Soul, Pure Red. My favorite table wine for the price.
Slightly tipsy, shifts always seem to appear more frequently. My legs don't feel real, instead like flippers attached to a long thick body which extends far beyond what I know is there. Tusks get in the way of my sipping, and I swear I can feel the vibrations of them tapping against my wine glass. My frame feels heavy and large, my brain convincing my body that it isn't the shape it last remembered it being. I can feel my rear flippers push against my chair for better leverage. And the sensitive whiskers of my face, far more delicate than anything I can explain.
Like some sort of mermaid-selkie drunk and missing home. Nights like this I do wish I had a community of therianthropes to communicate with. To share our shifts, to cry about what our souls desire most. Just to support each other and hold each other up in our human lives.
At least I have this bottle of wine.
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Walrus Bones
SpiritualA collection of musings created for the self nourishment of a solitary walrus therianthrope.
