The 3 AM Thoughts of Christopher Jonathan Herondale.
Are love and hate the same thing? Or so different that people don’t know what else to separate them from so they call them the same?
Breathing his hard. Sometimes so hard, it feels has if my chest wants to crush me. What do our bodies know about love and despair? Isn’t that the mind’s work?
Do we love what we fear and fear what we love? Or do we simply fear for what we love?
We use the things we like to describe what we love. Is it because we want it to be more of our liking? To make it more beautiful in our eyes, or to give us more reasons to like it? Or something else entirely?
We are cursed, aren’t we? Cursed to break, to suffer, to watch time slip away and have no say so. Cursed to love and it’s cruelties, helpless to do anything but let it squeeze all that is good in us until we became husks.
We are nothing but slaves to our mind and heart’s desires. Who else is there to blame? After all, we are first traitors to ourselves than to the rest of the world.
I miss him every day. Miss his rare smiles, his laughs which are nothing but pure and genuine.
I miss his eyes, the storms inside, who speak of adventure and wonder. An ever hungry mind, always looking for answers.
I miss his heart, a heart always so kind, courageous and righteous.
I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him, I miss him...
The crumbled piece of paper stare at Kit, as it had being doing for the better part of the last 10 minutes. Kit stare right back it, a thousand different thoughts racing through his mind, faster than he could manage, before he said anything.
“What had I been thinking?”, he said.
His room had being a mess for weeks, so it wasn’t a complete surprise for random things he had to memory of to put when he least expected it.
What truly caught him by surprise whoever, wasn’t the paper but the words. Words he had no memory of thinking, much less of writing, yet there was a paper in front of him in his hand writing, talking of heartbreak and missing Ty.
He must have been drunk. Definitely and hopelessly drunk.
Thunder rolled outside and next to his room a squeak answered it.
“Kit?” Mina said, her voice, high-pitched and terrified. Wilhelmina had never liked storms, or the dark, and the fact that a storm had gathered and kept her awake at night was taking its toll on her, and so, taking its toll on Kit. The only reason he had come back to his room instead of comforting her through the moment had being the promise of a story, one he had momentarily forgotten and now felt very guilty about.
“Coming, Min!” He spun and found the book, right where he had left it, and turn to the door before realizing that he still had the crumbled paper in his hand.
He took one last look at the words, a glance at the small fire if his chimney, and threw the paper among the flames.
He wouldn’t regret it, he told himself. Thought it as he left the place and returned to his sister, hiding beneath the sheets. As thunder and lighting boomed Mina squeaked and laughed with Kit. As the fire in his room grew alive for a moment before it settled in the ashes.
I’m so sorry it has taken me so long to write this and I know it’s not what I originally promised but I tried, I swear and this is the best I could come up with. The idea of it being kind of like a poem just sounded right to me because 1) you always give poetry vibes and 2) I think Kit is the kind of guy who would stay until four am writing bits of poetry, just to keep his mind from bursting. I hope you like! @alma-berry P.S. Also, I’m sorry it’s short but lately I haven’t come up with much ideas and I'm trying to hold on to the ones I get.