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I came upon a butcher he was slaughtering a lamb I accused him there with his tortured lamb he said listen to me child I am what I am & you you are my only son.

#HYMNS OF THE NATION YOU WILL LEAD / MUSIC.#thank you leo.nard cohen

preciousgyro

↳ FAR CRY 6 (18.02.2021)

#VISAGE.

autokratic

@yaranheir asked: i thought i knew.

LOOMING A FULL HEAD ABOVE HIS SON, anton knows his presence is a cast shadow that darkens the space between them. he is aware of the weight in the humid summer air. i thought i knew, his son tells him, the image of uncertain remorse. ‘ diego. ’ even clipped, there is an irrefutable disappointment in the tone that cradles the three syllables. anton’s hands fall upon diego’s shoulders, a demand for undivided attention disguised as a warm offer of reassurance. ( but nothing here comes by chance. everything has its place, everything has its reason. )

he squeezes his son’s shoulders, fingers digging, before his palms quest their way upward to frame his face between them. gentler, here, but no less firm. this is a simple nothing, a misstep that will land against the dirt. it is nothing more than a crumb – but even the smallest of seeds will lay roots that strangle if you let them. his spine bows as he leans in, and his voice is as gentle as a mouthful of lily of the valley.

‘ the road to hell is paved with good intentions. ’

yaranheir

the weight of the world rest on his shoulders, leaving him to play atlas, trembling with the effort of willing his knees not to buckle. his father commanded more than the country around them, he moved the earth with him, & to know his anger was to know the sensation of the ground jerking from underneath you, sending your heart to plummet from the yellow cliff below, towards the unforgiving sea. this had become one of his talents- clenching his jaw tight enough to feel each of his teeth in his jaw. don’t shake. don’t shake. dread twisted his stomach into knots more complex than the pattern of the wide carpet that covered the living room, the one his mother had admired so much when the men had first rolled it out. his eyes jumped from the shine of the polished floor to his father’s eyes when he felt his grip tighten, a sharp inhale & exhale.

“ I’m sorry, papa. ” he swallowed the proverb heavily, balancing on the pencil-thin line between brave & repentant. his voice sounded weak, even to him, when it left his mouth to echo off the walls. he shook his head, still framed by his father’s hands. “ I don’t want to go to hell. I’m sorry. ”

#PAPA / AUTOKRATIC.#:'(

@sabiduria said: ❝ one day you will understand. ❞

“ mamá- ” emotions mixed together when you were young- ( rage, fear, grief, devotion ) all one molotov cocktail buried under the papered preparation of his father. he added pages to it every day, a new rule he had to abide by lest he fail him, lest he fail the nation that was warring on their doorstep always, throwing themselves against their walls. muerte, muerte ! they all said. libertad para yara ! “ what if I don’t.. ” it was an anxiety that almost dared not be spoken, shaking hands clenched and unclenched inside the pocket of his sweatshirt. diego swallowed, fingernails digging into palms. he wanted the safety he found hiding in her skirt when he was young to avoid the cameras and the men in their suits with their sharp edges and smiles with their neat white shine that reminded him more of sharks than men. when he was still allowed fear. it was different now. he grabbed his mother’s hand in his own, speaking barely loud enough to hear. “ what if I don’t want to be like him ? what if I- mamá, what if I can’t ? ”

#MAMÁ / SABIDURIA.#:')