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02-23-2015, 11:31 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,
We'll search our hearts before you die, let the times fade away,
It was given as a promise to each and every man...
“They tell me that,” and of course he would hardly be the first attempting to tell her such a thing—probably not the last, either, but he wanted so desperately to burn the truth into her mind as vividly as it was burnt into his.
But who was he to speak.. dog that he was, always a follower; someone's tool, the bloodied sword swung, the one who let the world kick and bite without retribution. Could he claim that he was who he wanted to be? Could he say that his life was his own, when the only meaning it had ever held was the one given unto him? Who did he even want to be? Hadn't he spent years trying to be someone else only to find that he couldn't change who he already was? That the so-called frost heart wasn't black with frostbite, but just as red as anyone else's? He wasn't sure he was who he wanted to be—he just knew that he was who he was, and that was.. that was just Mauja. Just Mauja, no more, no less.
It wasn't about being who you wanted to be, but rather it was not being who someone else wanted you to be. But.. ah, well.. it is easy to be wise in hindsight, and he didn't think it really mattered, because the landslide pouring out of her mouth probably needed to come out regardless. It sounded like he felt: infected. Whatever had caused this had been left to rot inside of her for too long.
He only wished he was as brave, that he one day could spit all his poison out too. It lay thick and black on his tongue, but it stuck against his teeth.
“I’m here, and this is how I ended up being, but what if—what if it’s not what they needed? What if they needed someone great who could do all this amazing shit—but instead—instead they got me and now TOTO’S DEAD!!”
Her voice rang around the cavern, the multitude of echoes giving way to the last word she'd screamed, dead, dead, dead, and Mauja felt something in his heart pick it up like a song, humming the word with soft sadness. Dead, dead, they're all dead. His road was paved with bones and lined with corpses; ghost-lights glowed in their hollow-eyed skulls, cheerily showing him the way to Hell.
Hell-o-via. He was already there.
The warmth her body had offered left, and while his ears were glad to no longer be so viciously close to her shouting, his soul missed her presence—not so much for the heat, but for what it meant, some kind of trust that she'd lain in his embrace and cried and spilled out all these things that really, her parents should be the ones hearing.. that it should be them here, soaking up her tears and trying to.. well.. help? But it wasn't helping as much as listening. A soft sigh escaped him as he took the opportunity to shift on the floor. He felt.. not exactly comfortable—it was a hard place full of uneven edges and something was pricking him pretty badly between two ribs—but it felt right to remain there, slowly shifting until he was more sprawled than anything. Still, he peered up at her, and then snorted. "Don't worry, you're about as stupid as the rest of those present," he told her with a slight twitch of the lips, a half-smile with an edge. "So you're in good company."
It was a bitter truth that he could probably lay there and mock himself all day. There was something so sickeningly refreshing about putting yourself down, almost liberating in some way—it was something he both craved and feared, like some kind of drug. It felt so good and at the same time it made him feel awful.
But maybe it's why he can't let go.
"Look, Elding..." And it suddenly felt so cheap that he was just sprawling there in her ruin, like some wastrel too wasted to get up again—so he rolled over on his belly again, tucking blood-scabbed knees neatly against his chest and sweeping the dust with his tail. He was so old, so far removed from the days of his youth, and she seemed so much stronger than she was (in this moment, at least); he'd seen the kid in her that first time on the beach when she—they—had panicked, but it was easy to forget.. but it was there, and he hadn't realized how important it was, and that just added to his mountain of guilt. "I can't claim to know what it's like to grow up with the sense of being unwanted, without the love of your parents—I.. was very fortunate in that regard," and he never would've traded that away, and certainly not knowing what he did now, "But..." And this was the hardest part. Laying your head beneath the axe and wondering where it will fall.
If it'll fall at all, or just loom there above you, some half-spoken threat, or truth. But it ate at him, at his guts, a fire that was spreading and going out of control. He had to know, or at least ask, but he was terrified of the answer. So when he spoke his voice was so soft, there in the wrecked cave.
"You sound as if you.. owe them—us—everyone.. as if you owe something, like, your life or something—" Not as death but every waking minute, every purpose; her death, if it was called for, but by whom?
He didn't know.
Or maybe he did but he didn't want to.
"—ah, fuck it," he muttered after that breath's pause. Curiosity aside, he felt like he was better off not knowing, better off not finishing that train of thought, or maybe just like it was too early for it. He.. didn't know. He felt as scattered as the crystal panes broken all around him.
Dead, dead, dead, his heart sang softly in the back of his mind, whispering in the lull between the pulses. He realized his gaze had dropped to the floor, and raised it again—soft blue searching for hers.
"Is this the first time.. you lost someone to death..?"
[ @[Roskuld] ]
It was given as a promise to each and every man...
“They tell me that,” and of course he would hardly be the first attempting to tell her such a thing—probably not the last, either, but he wanted so desperately to burn the truth into her mind as vividly as it was burnt into his.
But who was he to speak.. dog that he was, always a follower; someone's tool, the bloodied sword swung, the one who let the world kick and bite without retribution. Could he claim that he was who he wanted to be? Could he say that his life was his own, when the only meaning it had ever held was the one given unto him? Who did he even want to be? Hadn't he spent years trying to be someone else only to find that he couldn't change who he already was? That the so-called frost heart wasn't black with frostbite, but just as red as anyone else's? He wasn't sure he was who he wanted to be—he just knew that he was who he was, and that was.. that was just Mauja. Just Mauja, no more, no less.
It wasn't about being who you wanted to be, but rather it was not being who someone else wanted you to be. But.. ah, well.. it is easy to be wise in hindsight, and he didn't think it really mattered, because the landslide pouring out of her mouth probably needed to come out regardless. It sounded like he felt: infected. Whatever had caused this had been left to rot inside of her for too long.
He only wished he was as brave, that he one day could spit all his poison out too. It lay thick and black on his tongue, but it stuck against his teeth.
“I’m here, and this is how I ended up being, but what if—what if it’s not what they needed? What if they needed someone great who could do all this amazing shit—but instead—instead they got me and now TOTO’S DEAD!!”
Her voice rang around the cavern, the multitude of echoes giving way to the last word she'd screamed, dead, dead, dead, and Mauja felt something in his heart pick it up like a song, humming the word with soft sadness. Dead, dead, they're all dead. His road was paved with bones and lined with corpses; ghost-lights glowed in their hollow-eyed skulls, cheerily showing him the way to Hell.
Hell-o-via. He was already there.
The warmth her body had offered left, and while his ears were glad to no longer be so viciously close to her shouting, his soul missed her presence—not so much for the heat, but for what it meant, some kind of trust that she'd lain in his embrace and cried and spilled out all these things that really, her parents should be the ones hearing.. that it should be them here, soaking up her tears and trying to.. well.. help? But it wasn't helping as much as listening. A soft sigh escaped him as he took the opportunity to shift on the floor. He felt.. not exactly comfortable—it was a hard place full of uneven edges and something was pricking him pretty badly between two ribs—but it felt right to remain there, slowly shifting until he was more sprawled than anything. Still, he peered up at her, and then snorted. "Don't worry, you're about as stupid as the rest of those present," he told her with a slight twitch of the lips, a half-smile with an edge. "So you're in good company."
It was a bitter truth that he could probably lay there and mock himself all day. There was something so sickeningly refreshing about putting yourself down, almost liberating in some way—it was something he both craved and feared, like some kind of drug. It felt so good and at the same time it made him feel awful.
But maybe it's why he can't let go.
"Look, Elding..." And it suddenly felt so cheap that he was just sprawling there in her ruin, like some wastrel too wasted to get up again—so he rolled over on his belly again, tucking blood-scabbed knees neatly against his chest and sweeping the dust with his tail. He was so old, so far removed from the days of his youth, and she seemed so much stronger than she was (in this moment, at least); he'd seen the kid in her that first time on the beach when she—they—had panicked, but it was easy to forget.. but it was there, and he hadn't realized how important it was, and that just added to his mountain of guilt. "I can't claim to know what it's like to grow up with the sense of being unwanted, without the love of your parents—I.. was very fortunate in that regard," and he never would've traded that away, and certainly not knowing what he did now, "But..." And this was the hardest part. Laying your head beneath the axe and wondering where it will fall.
If it'll fall at all, or just loom there above you, some half-spoken threat, or truth. But it ate at him, at his guts, a fire that was spreading and going out of control. He had to know, or at least ask, but he was terrified of the answer. So when he spoke his voice was so soft, there in the wrecked cave.
"You sound as if you.. owe them—us—everyone.. as if you owe something, like, your life or something—" Not as death but every waking minute, every purpose; her death, if it was called for, but by whom?
He didn't know.
Or maybe he did but he didn't want to.
"—ah, fuck it," he muttered after that breath's pause. Curiosity aside, he felt like he was better off not knowing, better off not finishing that train of thought, or maybe just like it was too early for it. He.. didn't know. He felt as scattered as the crystal panes broken all around him.
Dead, dead, dead, his heart sang softly in the back of his mind, whispering in the lull between the pulses. He realized his gaze had dropped to the floor, and raised it again—soft blue searching for hers.
"Is this the first time.. you lost someone to death..?"
[ @[Roskuld] ]
du lät exakt som ismael.
