ℌ𝔞𝔯𝔟𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔬𝔣𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥

ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥. 𝔄 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔦𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔲𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔰. 𝔄 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔟𝔯𝔢.

[darkharbingerofdeath]

There will be a time where a person in your life realizes that they owe you an apology. But by then it will be too late. For when the realization hits (if it ever dawns on them) the window for any recovery or forgiveness will have closed on them.

[darkharbingerofdeath]

The older one gets the more it is realized the type of souls float around.

There are soft souls born from a quiet heart. Yearning to be apart of something. Lending kindness. To give without expecting anything in return. They have more often seen suffering, been through alot. Yet, are still caring towards others.

There are the hard souls, born of ill intent. The take without contributing back. Expecting things that are not owed to them. Often manipulating softer souls. Tugging at their kindness to get what they want.

There are the medium souls, born in between. They can be kind or cruel. Life has shaped them into who they are. They can be givers as well as takers. Creating false connections with others. They are lost in who they are. Chasing fleeting moments that never last. They often follow the hard soul to fit in. But the rare times they form a bond with a soft soul if can change them for the better. Or they take advantage of the kindeness.

[darkharbingerofdeath]

There are things that bring people joy in this small life. Hobbies or that special something they love to do. But, when that is stripped away from them—through no fault of their own, mind you—life goes back to being an empty nothingness. A soul with no purpose

[darkharbingerofdeath]

Words. A tool of power. The way they can be strung together—to tell a story, to give an instruction, to convey an emotion. Words can help. Words can hurt. Once they are spoken (written) they cannot be taken back. Use them wisely. There may be a time where words hold no meaning, to the one who hears them.

[darkharbingerofdeath]

Friendship comes and goes, like waves on a tide. Crashing against sand. Retreating back, merging with the ocean—becoming both old and new. Save for the exceptional few, whose friendship holds steady—lasting lifetimes. Some are destroyed. At the same time others are created. And when it ends it leaves behind a void which can easily be overlooked.

[darkharbingerofdeath]

Darkness is a danger to all, but a comfort for some. A friend, when there is nothing. Wrapping one in a shroud. No one craves the darkness—it calls to them. Darkness is born of agony and despair. Starting off small—burrowing a hole beneath the ribs—until it reaches the cavity of the heart.

[darkharbingerofdeath]

Life demands everything, yet gives nothing in return. Taking even the strongest, reshaping them until they are unrecognizable—even to themselves. A kind soul's light will flicker—like a wick burning towards inevitability—as the flame reaches a pool of heated wax at the bottom of a candle. Snuffing life away when it has nothing left to burn.