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02-18-2015, 06:14 AM
och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen
då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,
He didn't know what to do anymore.
He didn't know anything at all, about anyone—about himself.
It was just him, and the darkness, white lids pressed together but the tears kept on escaping, along with the shuddering breaths rattling out of his lungs. Everything else threatened to disappear, shear off and fall into the sea, and maybe, just maybe, he wanted to fall down with it.. and disappear into the dark, cold waters.. just to see whatever foreign shore he washed up on, and if that sun was as warm as this one.
He was tired of living this way, of haunting himself, of hounding himself, of holding on so tight to the past that he couldn't move on—that he couldn't accept what he had become, what he had always been, that.. somehow, he always strove to return to something he had forsaken, something he had never truly been, not in his frozen heart; he was tired of running down the same empty corridors at night, and never finding neither door nor window to break out of. He was tired of the bitter, biting voice pointing out to him how weak he was, of having it written in the faces and eyes and words of everyone he met, how he had become lesser, but in what way? Because life had, finally, gotten to him, and poisoned him? Because he had abandoned the ideals of a horn meaning you are superior? Because he'd fucked everything up? Because he never did anything right? Because shit always fell apart around him?
In what way had he failed the entire goddamn world?
The tears just kept on falling, his ears slick to his neck, not wanting to listen, not wanting to hear, because.. because... Because if he said nothing, she would not understand, but he didn't want to say anything—didn't want to explain.
Could barely breathe, for the painful lump in his throat; could barely stand still, for the restless energy pushing against him, her voice a confused mess battering against an already plagued mind, and he wanted to whisper I cannot help you but he could, if he just said it... But the tears were in the way, the overwhelming sense of fucked-up emotion battling the rationality, the need to take care of her.. He dragged his head up, wet cheek rubbing against her shoulder until he bore it higher than her back again, and some ghastly, strangled moan made its way out of his throat. Not quite what he had meant to say.
"Nothing," he finally managed, trying to spit the word out but choking on it instead—gods, he was a mess, but something about it felt like.. relief. Like someone had finally cut open the swollen skin at the edge of a scar and begun to drain it of everything vile that had been allowed to fester for years. "It's just.. short-circuited..." He never could've guessed how hard it was to breathe and cry properly at the same time; it left him feeling out of breath, out of words, and his eyes slipped half-closed as he tried to just breathe. It was too loud in his ears, too loud in the forest, not quite aligning with the music around them. Feathers whispered, a hushed sound lost in the gentle hymn, and in a silent, split-second glide Diego was on the ground, wings still held wide as one taloned foot gently grasped the stone. For a moment he paused, and peered at it, then up at Kahlua, and finally, Mauja, something thoughtful in his gaze. (And when that owl looks thoughtful, you know he's up to something.)
But it was pathetic, how starved for kindness he was, if such a simple thing as this reduced him to a blubbering mess.
"It's beautiful," he went on after a moment, voice still some hybrid between a whisper and a sob, "it's just a fucking glowing stone but it's so beautiful, so simple, and, I.. I..." Had he ever been this undignified before? Disheveled, haggard, crying, rambling?
Did he care?
No.
Just slung his head over her back again, to hold her close, and to whisper "Thank you," against the softness of her skin.
He didn't know anything at all, about anyone—about himself.
It was just him, and the darkness, white lids pressed together but the tears kept on escaping, along with the shuddering breaths rattling out of his lungs. Everything else threatened to disappear, shear off and fall into the sea, and maybe, just maybe, he wanted to fall down with it.. and disappear into the dark, cold waters.. just to see whatever foreign shore he washed up on, and if that sun was as warm as this one.
He was tired of living this way, of haunting himself, of hounding himself, of holding on so tight to the past that he couldn't move on—that he couldn't accept what he had become, what he had always been, that.. somehow, he always strove to return to something he had forsaken, something he had never truly been, not in his frozen heart; he was tired of running down the same empty corridors at night, and never finding neither door nor window to break out of. He was tired of the bitter, biting voice pointing out to him how weak he was, of having it written in the faces and eyes and words of everyone he met, how he had become lesser, but in what way? Because life had, finally, gotten to him, and poisoned him? Because he had abandoned the ideals of a horn meaning you are superior? Because he'd fucked everything up? Because he never did anything right? Because shit always fell apart around him?
In what way had he failed the entire goddamn world?
The tears just kept on falling, his ears slick to his neck, not wanting to listen, not wanting to hear, because.. because... Because if he said nothing, she would not understand, but he didn't want to say anything—didn't want to explain.
Could barely breathe, for the painful lump in his throat; could barely stand still, for the restless energy pushing against him, her voice a confused mess battering against an already plagued mind, and he wanted to whisper I cannot help you but he could, if he just said it... But the tears were in the way, the overwhelming sense of fucked-up emotion battling the rationality, the need to take care of her.. He dragged his head up, wet cheek rubbing against her shoulder until he bore it higher than her back again, and some ghastly, strangled moan made its way out of his throat. Not quite what he had meant to say.
"Nothing," he finally managed, trying to spit the word out but choking on it instead—gods, he was a mess, but something about it felt like.. relief. Like someone had finally cut open the swollen skin at the edge of a scar and begun to drain it of everything vile that had been allowed to fester for years. "It's just.. short-circuited..." He never could've guessed how hard it was to breathe and cry properly at the same time; it left him feeling out of breath, out of words, and his eyes slipped half-closed as he tried to just breathe. It was too loud in his ears, too loud in the forest, not quite aligning with the music around them. Feathers whispered, a hushed sound lost in the gentle hymn, and in a silent, split-second glide Diego was on the ground, wings still held wide as one taloned foot gently grasped the stone. For a moment he paused, and peered at it, then up at Kahlua, and finally, Mauja, something thoughtful in his gaze. (And when that owl looks thoughtful, you know he's up to something.)
But it was pathetic, how starved for kindness he was, if such a simple thing as this reduced him to a blubbering mess.
"It's beautiful," he went on after a moment, voice still some hybrid between a whisper and a sob, "it's just a fucking glowing stone but it's so beautiful, so simple, and, I.. I..." Had he ever been this undignified before? Disheveled, haggard, crying, rambling?
Did he care?
No.
Just slung his head over her back again, to hold her close, and to whisper "Thank you," against the softness of her skin.
du lät exakt som ismael.
