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[vincentbroquaire]

[where-ever-you-are-not]

"You are wrong if you think joy emanates only or principally from human relationships. God has placed it all around us. It is everything and anything we might experience. We just have to have the courage to turn against our habitual lifestyle and engage in unconventional living." -- Alexander Supertramp.

The think about the wilderness,

is that it is not wilderness.

The truth is that it is a dream,

it is the purest form of this earth. 

[where-ever-you-are-not]

"Like she stole the very fires from hell" -

that is what parents tell their children at night.

Sirens of the underworld, slinking around street corners in the dead of night. Charismatic, they lure the lonely and the weak. Covered from head to toe in black, hiding the very glow they were blessed with.

They are called demons, and monsters.

The mortals are terrified, so they deny the very existence, they turn them into fairy tale villains.

They were wrong to do so. 

[where-ever-you-are-not]

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The echo was a canon boom with every step, it was fire and smoke and everything that I survived.

  But this wasn’t supposed to be me. I am not my mother and I am not my sister.

I am not meant to lead. I am meant to kill, to defend, to conquer. More my father than my mother.

  There are no secrets here. Every word echoes down the hall, every movement amplified. It is not safe. It is not safe I tell everyone, they tell me that everything is okay. That I am safe, I am where I belong. I beg them to leave me, that I am not safe. So I hide my dagger in my dress sleeves, a sword between my mattresses, an axe in my wardrobe.

  And how is it that I survived alone on the battlefield. Wading through battles, of brother fighting brother, father fighting son, and I this girl of only ten and three with mud on my boots and blood on my face.  Fighting a war that was bubbling before my birth.

  How is it that I was safer there then my family was in this castle?

  I looked over the balcony. Down onto the marble that will forever retain the heat from the blood that graced its surface. Blood of my blood. Meraina says that it’s the sun that heats these walls but I know better.

  The notion that my sister flung herself over the edge at the news of mother’s downfall seems more plausible every day that I walk these halls. Always prim, always proper. There is still rebellion in the streets but I am not to partake in the keeping (or attempt at keeping) the peace. I must be a symbol, a symbol of strength and of serenity, a promise that this war will be over and that all will be well sooner rather than later.

  They tell me that I am safe. But I am not. No one is, no one will ever be.

[takumiwrites]

Note: The photo is not mine, I got it from a writeworld imageblock, original source is here Anyways, enjoy. Why am I here? That's a deep philosophical question for you. Even deeper for someone like me. I'm not a deep thinker. I'm not even a deep feeler. Not to most people anyways. Contrary to popular belief, I feel. I feel and I care. But I don't express myself well. Usually any emotion gets jumbled somewhere between its point of origin and my mouth. I either deflect and escape, or I start screaming and throwing punches. Matt says that it's just because I've never grieved our parents and that it's tougher because I was in the car when the accident happened. But honestly? I don't remember much. We were coming home from the recital, and I can remember a bright flash of light, and a scream as metal crunched....and then Matt's tucking me into bed a week or so later, asking if I'm ready to go back to school the next day. For the record, I said yes. I know he blames himself for our parents deaths. He was nineteen, and in college halfway across the country, and he had promised he'd be home for all my big recitals. But this time he couldn't. There was a big football game, and he was a quarterback. I can't remember if he was first string or not, but from what I remember, he was good. Anyways. When he was home, he would drive us on a super secret route, through the park, and and no matter how cold or snowy, or how badly it poured, he would take the top down on his cherry red convertible, and we'd go as fast as we could, music blasting classic rock, and belting whatever song came on. He old be horrifically off key, and I would be too blissfully happy to care. Everything changed after that. He sold the car. He quit football and moved back home. He took care of me. I stopped playing the piano, stopped singing, and five years later took up smoking thanks to my older mischievous somewhat boyfriend. It was complicated. It still is. I blame myself for what happened too. After all, I wouldn't divulge Matt's secret path. Because even though we're eleven years apart, our secrets were kept. Goddamn that got poetic fast. And I still don't know what I'm doing here. I'm up to my knees in water so cold it makes my bones ache, staring at the sunset over trees while fog swirls around me like I've been smoking pot in a pantry for three hours. Derik would write a song about it, about me. Thank god he's not here though. I hate his latest girlfriend. And I kinda hate him. But I kinda love him too.