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02-18-2015, 06:36 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's not an angel; he has no wings of pure light, no gilt heart resting in a cage of silver ribs, and no heavenly voice to sing lost souls to paradise with.
He's something else, something that's been cast out, something that plummets and free-falls, so convinced of its own damnation it refuses to understand that it, too, has wings—in a way, so stubborn that it would rather fall. Bitterness and pride would always be the death of him.
And maybe, in moments like those, when he's just standing upon a beach and helping some stranger survive a cold morning, it seems so distant, hard to understand; doesn't there seem to be some kind of peace behind the thin amusement in his blue eyes? In the ways his muscles aren't tensed up? In the feeling of having time, because there's no rush, no hurry?
But it still ate at him, a monster in the back of his mind, nibbling and gnawing and infecting. He had become his own demon.. his own judge.
She seemed to recede into the darkness of her mind again, and he let her go. Unlike the ice, which he had grounded and then released, leaving it to stand until the waters melted it, the fire needed his constant attention, a tug at his soul, slowly burning away at his control; not having to talk was a relief in that sense, though it did have the drawback of leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Sunlight arced over the horizon behind him, stroked his back with gentle fingers and whispered, teased his shoulders.. he didn't want to listen. He didn't want to hear. He didn't want to acknowledge it.. didn't want to feel the steady beat of the fire-bird's wings reverberating through his mind.
"Who are you?" she suddenly said—whispered?—and his gaze left the reflection of early sunlight over stilling waters, and slid down to her, but her eyes unnerved him and he looked away again. "The Light of Dawn," he murmured, a faint smile causing his dark lips to curve. It tasted as tainted as everything else he touched, corroded by the vile poison slipping through his veins.. tarnished by the voice that said, you will never know anything of goodness or light and it's not even their fault anymore—it's yours. A moment later his voice was followed by a short, bitter laugh.
"It doesn't matter," he said, because names held power, and when unfettered by the chains his name bore he felt freer; lighter.
Let him be only an angel of light and illusion upon this beach.
He's something else, something that's been cast out, something that plummets and free-falls, so convinced of its own damnation it refuses to understand that it, too, has wings—in a way, so stubborn that it would rather fall. Bitterness and pride would always be the death of him.
And maybe, in moments like those, when he's just standing upon a beach and helping some stranger survive a cold morning, it seems so distant, hard to understand; doesn't there seem to be some kind of peace behind the thin amusement in his blue eyes? In the ways his muscles aren't tensed up? In the feeling of having time, because there's no rush, no hurry?
But it still ate at him, a monster in the back of his mind, nibbling and gnawing and infecting. He had become his own demon.. his own judge.
She seemed to recede into the darkness of her mind again, and he let her go. Unlike the ice, which he had grounded and then released, leaving it to stand until the waters melted it, the fire needed his constant attention, a tug at his soul, slowly burning away at his control; not having to talk was a relief in that sense, though it did have the drawback of leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Sunlight arced over the horizon behind him, stroked his back with gentle fingers and whispered, teased his shoulders.. he didn't want to listen. He didn't want to hear. He didn't want to acknowledge it.. didn't want to feel the steady beat of the fire-bird's wings reverberating through his mind.
"Who are you?" she suddenly said—whispered?—and his gaze left the reflection of early sunlight over stilling waters, and slid down to her, but her eyes unnerved him and he looked away again. "The Light of Dawn," he murmured, a faint smile causing his dark lips to curve. It tasted as tainted as everything else he touched, corroded by the vile poison slipping through his veins.. tarnished by the voice that said, you will never know anything of goodness or light and it's not even their fault anymore—it's yours. A moment later his voice was followed by a short, bitter laugh.
"It doesn't matter," he said, because names held power, and when unfettered by the chains his name bore he felt freer; lighter.
Let him be only an angel of light and illusion upon this beach.
du lät exakt som ismael.
