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somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me
I'm frozen by the fear in me
"They call me the frostheart," the snowbeast whispered, voice nothing but white smoke rising in front of a white face.
But if his heart was made of frost, how could he live? If his veins were ice and the shining, pulsing red refracted through its crystalline walls, how could he move without shattering? And if he was truly frozen over..
.. how could he love?
Because love, was his undoing. Love. It nestled in the blackened ruin of his heart, shrieked in the icy wind blasting through his soul, and it was love that hid behind the ice walls of his eyes. Love—unrequited, dead, forgotten. It was the arctic wolf hunting him, ice-rimed fangs snapping at his bleeding haunches, and its terrorizing, haunting song at night was composed out of the very same thing which beat in its core—that cursed, cursed word. They bandied it about like a slogan or a shield, some kind of cure, or the fucking meaning of life. As if it was worth something. As if it fixed anything. All you need is love.
You can't eat love. You can't breathe love. It haunts you, it preys upon your dreams, your mind, your body, until everything in the spaces between your bones feels hollowed. Piece by piece it tears you asunder, leaving nothing but that aching emptiness, a brand of fire burning against your soul, and slowly bleeding you dry.
Love solved nothing. Love was torture. Love was a plague.
All love had ever given him, was pain.
All love had ever given him, was heartache.
All love had ever given him, was this meaningless, shitty existence, pieces of a life strung out over endless miles of gray, flat terrain with a hazy and unreachable horizon. Bit by bit he'd broken down on the way, little fragments of Mauja lining his road there like ice glittering in the sun—but only for a moment, before it melted, and eventually, dried up.
His time in this world meant nothing.
Was worth nothing.
He would leave no lasting marks upon it.
"Frostheart," the beast whispered again, bitterly, the wind—that shrieking, howling wind of wolf-song and his own personal brand of agony—whipping tears from his eyes and freezing them upon his cheeks. Spring meant little in the land of winter and snow, where the white dug its fangs in as deeply as love had dug its own into his soul. Winter was as merciless as love, just as haunting and just as cruel, unwilling to let go of what it had claimed.
But where winter was peace, love was not; love was warfare, against an enemy which did not exist outside of his heart. It was a wound neither logic nor insight could heal—it was a wound as invisible as the emotion itself. It bled the soul dry and left the body a living, empty husk.
"Frostheart," he said again, but this time it was a sob (it was almost a laugh), because the title was so marvelously unfitting he wondered how he had ever been branded with it. His heart was bitten and torn,
but at its core,
it was warm.
Mauja had loved.
Mauja had loved, and he had always lost.
[ uuhmm @[Roskuld] perhaps ;D ]
But if his heart was made of frost, how could he live? If his veins were ice and the shining, pulsing red refracted through its crystalline walls, how could he move without shattering? And if he was truly frozen over..
.. how could he love?
Because love, was his undoing. Love. It nestled in the blackened ruin of his heart, shrieked in the icy wind blasting through his soul, and it was love that hid behind the ice walls of his eyes. Love—unrequited, dead, forgotten. It was the arctic wolf hunting him, ice-rimed fangs snapping at his bleeding haunches, and its terrorizing, haunting song at night was composed out of the very same thing which beat in its core—that cursed, cursed word. They bandied it about like a slogan or a shield, some kind of cure, or the fucking meaning of life. As if it was worth something. As if it fixed anything. All you need is love.
You can't eat love. You can't breathe love. It haunts you, it preys upon your dreams, your mind, your body, until everything in the spaces between your bones feels hollowed. Piece by piece it tears you asunder, leaving nothing but that aching emptiness, a brand of fire burning against your soul, and slowly bleeding you dry.
Love solved nothing. Love was torture. Love was a plague.
All love had ever given him, was pain.
All love had ever given him, was heartache.
All love had ever given him, was this meaningless, shitty existence, pieces of a life strung out over endless miles of gray, flat terrain with a hazy and unreachable horizon. Bit by bit he'd broken down on the way, little fragments of Mauja lining his road there like ice glittering in the sun—but only for a moment, before it melted, and eventually, dried up.
His time in this world meant nothing.
Was worth nothing.
He would leave no lasting marks upon it.
"Frostheart," the beast whispered again, bitterly, the wind—that shrieking, howling wind of wolf-song and his own personal brand of agony—whipping tears from his eyes and freezing them upon his cheeks. Spring meant little in the land of winter and snow, where the white dug its fangs in as deeply as love had dug its own into his soul. Winter was as merciless as love, just as haunting and just as cruel, unwilling to let go of what it had claimed.
But where winter was peace, love was not; love was warfare, against an enemy which did not exist outside of his heart. It was a wound neither logic nor insight could heal—it was a wound as invisible as the emotion itself. It bled the soul dry and left the body a living, empty husk.
"Frostheart," he said again, but this time it was a sob (it was almost a laugh), because the title was so marvelously unfitting he wondered how he had ever been branded with it. His heart was bitten and torn,
but at its core,
it was warm.
Mauja had loved.
Mauja had loved, and he had always lost.
[ uuhmm @[Roskuld] perhaps ;D ]
somebody make me feel alive
and shatter me
and shatter me
