Fading Into Dust

It was a chilly, brisk spring day, but the prairie grass was already green and waist-high on the young llama. He ran up the hill with his unzipped, tattered jacket flowing with the wind. His messy and long dark brown wool flowed back over his shoulder, curling up on itself, and then whipping out again with the wind. Behind him came a bigger llama and he grabbed the little llama. Together, they tumbled and play-wrestled down the other side of the hill. As dawn turned into midday and as midday turned into dusk, the two llamas grew tired but were content together with a day well-played tumbling all around the hill. As they prepared to walk down the hill for a final time that day, the little llama climbed onto the bigger llama's shoulders and surveyed the evening countryside. He looked at the way the budding spring leaves moved with the wind, how the light from the sun danced between clouds and over the trees and their leaves, and how the light swept over the tall grass surrounding the hill. He sighed happily, and merely remarked, "I hope things never change."

Spring turned into summer, and summer turned into autumn. Autumn turned into winter, and winter subsided back into spring. And this cycle repeated for years, and over all those changing seasons, the little llama still played with the big llama, and they were as content as llamas could be. Yet as the years changed, so did the big llama. He was less interested in playing with the little llama. He'd rather read his book, he told the little llama. He'd rather talk to the other big llamas, he would say to the little llama.
However, the little llama never changed throughout the years. He got bigger, taller, faster, and stronger, but all the little llama wanted to do was play with the big llama on that grassy hill. It would rarely happen anymore. When it did, it never was the same. The big llama just didn't have the heart for it anymore, merely playing to finish the task.
So, the adaptable little llama grew to play by himself. He stopped running down the hill and tumbling down it and started walking in the dreary autumn forests. He stopped looking at the dew on the grass and the way the light danced on the leaves. He could only watch them fall.
And all throughout this adaptation by the little llama, the big llama never took notice.

The big llama was fully grown now, broad and muscular, with an aura of confidence emitting from him. He'd changed, he'd grown up; he had commitments, friends, priorities, and little time.
The little llama merely wanted to play on the hill, as he did when he was young. He wanted to run through the tall grass that brushed at his waist, but that grass was no more. Now it came to the little llama's shins, and instead of parting ways for him, tangled him and tripped him. The spring grass there was no longer a vibrant, lively green, but a dying brown. Dew never collected on the dying prairie grass. The trees looked hard and bare, even when Spring impregnated them with buds which blossom into leaves.
He tried to play on the hill by himself. It wasn't the same alone, but there was more off for him; he didn't have the heart to play there anymore, no matter how much he longed to. Something felt off, like his legs were just moving, but his brain was somewhere else, locked away in a far away place. The little llama was too locked away, with his mind in a place of misery and the glorious hill of his youth in a state of decay. And there was nothing he could do but watch himself and his hill decay and fade into dust.