There were many things she wanted to confess.
She wanted to confess to feeling alone, even when others sat beside her; she felt like she was trapped in a glass jar, and everyone else was on the outside, playing, living their lives. She'd call to them, reach for them, but she would be ignored, a too old doll tossed aside for something new and exciting.
She wanted to confess to being so jealous, so possessive over certain others; her heart burned when she felt rejected, and she'd often find herself moving away from the source of it - only to sometime return, herself being unable to fully remain cross with anyone she cared about, and if that
didn't beat all. She felt like a slave in these times, tied to her master even when she wanted nothing to do with them. She couldn't stand sitting on the sidelines, watching her friends mingle with each other like brothers and sisters, while she had to say on the sidelines for one ridiculous reason or another. And even when they allowed her close, allowed her to touch and play, there was that feeling in the back of her mind that she wasn't welcome, and never would be.
She wanted to confess to wanting someone that would love her and only her, in that
special, tender way; she wanted to be their whole world, be their everything. She wanted to give everything to them, and receive everything from them in return. Sure, she wouldn't mind them having friends and family, but she wanted to be the one true rock and fortress that would comfort them, soothe them,
pleasure them in times of need - or in times of hormonal influxes. Whichever came first.
And yet, that was the
thing; a part of her felt that she couldn't love in that sense; and yet why did she think,
dream of being in someone's grasp, a deep rooted love that could never be severed, broken? If she were to love, she wagered she would love hard, and would make sure they knew they meant the world to her and more. And yet, she felt...
nothing towards everyone that surrounded her in her life. She couldn't understand it.
She also wanted to confess to wanting to be something she wasn't; she felt different, wanted to
be different, and yet she felt as if she was stuck in a rut. She felt like she didn't know herself, didn't know who or what she really was. She was plenty of things, that's for sure, but how did she know it was her true self? How did she know that her mind was simply tricking her, her true self locked away in some deep shaft, doomed to prison eternal?
And yet, if such a thing existed, how would she find it? How would she know where to look? She felt helpless, completely lost - and yet, how could she communicate this to anyone? How could she reveal her inner workings, her inner doubts, without annoying like she always did? Would they even understand what she was thinking, what she was feeling?
She was, at best, an introvert; she was constantly thinking,
churning. She kept away from most, choosing to approach close friends, or occasionally follow someone who captured her interest. She sat and watched the world go on without her, paying attention only when she noticed someone's gaze glancing towards her direction. She felt useless, a waste of space half the time; and yet, other times, she simply didn't care for any of it. She was just content to watch everyone and everything live and die around her. She knew someday she would be next, but she hope she would go out peacefully, sleeping; not screaming, like so many did before her.
Perhaps, that was the problem; she was a constant thinker. Sometimes, she would barely scratch the surface; other times, she would dig too deeply. Either way, when you have plenty of time to think, you have plenty of time to doubt yourself, and all that is around you. You have plenty of time to think the world is plotting against you.
You have plenty of time to go
mad.
She didn't think she was mad though; she had an idea of what madness was; madness was the screams of oblivion, nails carving futile messages unto unyielding walls. You were trapped in the confounds of your own mind, your body weightless, almost invincible.
She didn't feel any of this, aside from feeling trapped in her own mind; she knew that there was always the chance she could be driven to the brink from the countless paranoid thoughts that coiled themselves around her head, day in and day out - and yet she always seemed to find some way to snap out of it, to realize that she was
afraid to die. That's what kept her alive - the fact that she was afraid to die, and she would do anything to keep from it for as long as she could.
There were many things she wanted to confess; but if anything, all of her confessions, all of her worries, paranoia - it all boiled down to one single thought, clawing her mind like a tiger to its prey.
Nothing terrified her more than being alone.
This 'She', this person with
Even when surrounded with nothing but the heat radiated from her own body, she is not alone.
If she knew just how many people often shared how she felt and thought, would she feel she feel so alone? Even if she knew that these feelings were often masked, hidden away? Would she see the crowd in her little glass jar if she knew how many people behaved as someone they were not?
How many masks do we wear to hide our mutual fears? How many of one of us are there? How much of it is the hardwired programs ingrained into the organic machines that are our cells?
Can any of us ever know?
Ever tell you I love how you write? I think so, but I'm telling you again.
It's always stirring.
And then, then after every
after every sin,
after the night had fallen asleep -
the docile sheep! -
a hand of bone
weighty as stone,
settled at a discontent brow.
Boughs snow ridden,
lies heavy hidden;
he is aware of loneliness
ars nepenthe
'the lies of sadness between you and I,'
he says, trees slow growing in a sigh -
inside
where things die.
She reminded him of all the things that had begged him - had pleaded with him, as if that would make a difference. It never did. They could close their eyes and bow their heads and cry their tears, but in the end, it wasn't him that had that say in whether or not they lived.
Head bowed, supplicating, Bylah thought she looked like children lost, begging for something they knew, something familiar to them, something that would make sense to them, but he never did.
You can't pray, can't prepare for the inevitable end, the sad little fire that you extinguish when you die. There's no more laughter, no more smiles -
no more tears.
Nothing makes sense anymore, once you've taken that last step, last stride, last breath that goes rattling in and sighing out.
It all looks terribly lonely down here from up there.
"Imagine how it must be for me, for do I not sit so high in the sky, with mine stars, that all I do is look down?" he asked her, little licks of fire, loving and adoring, caressing his brow eternally - as they had from the first minute, and would until the last.
As he was want to do, however, he smoothed the long sharp of a thumb across a brow that would never furrow in worry again. It would never see the sweat of a hard day's run, perhaps fleeing from teeth that might bite and rip flesh asunder.
"Do not worry," he rasped and smiled as he always did, only could, from now until the last star. 'I will take care of you now. You are no longer alone."
Hraeth - It's hard to say
For her, she likes to imagine things. But when it is her own emotions, her own mentality being pulled into question, is it even possible for her mind to see it? Would she know that it's not an illusion?
She likes masks - when they're hanging on a wall. She hates when people wear them; she wants to see their faces, she wants to see their every feature - the way the cheek bones line themselves, the way that tucks of hair hide the forehead. She wants to see their eyes, because, it's a sad fact that eyes are what draw her in; particularly golds and blues, grays and reds. Gold reminds her of fire, blue reminds her of the ocean, gray reminds her of smoke, and red is just beautiful in general.
She wishes she had the intellect to answer any question; alas, she is but a young adult, too small for the britches she was given.
The world may never know.
Thank you, Hraeth &hearts
L - Oh god, I wish I had a coherent response for that. I'm just...speechless. I got chills reading that.
fkskfkskfs Lllllll....&hearts ;;
"...I wish I had
Lacie....<3
To be frank, perhaps they
Silent... &hearts