3d
I can’t,
Reach through to you.
Not to comfort. Not to lift the burden.
I can’t stop this collapse. I can’t hold her back.
I can’t reach through.
Not to Transformation, The Wind.
Not to Death, The Oblivion.
Not to Ceyx or Alcyone.
Not to any of them.
Not even to you, the reader.
Fate…
Fate.
She cannot be destroyed.
She cannot be changed.
She cannot,
Will not,
Be redeemed.
They try.
I watch.
And I,
I suffer with them.
This burden is more than authorship.
It is repetition.
It is knowing that every moment of joy,
Carries a shadow like a mouth already open to scream.
It is speaking the happiness,
Knowing the pain that follows it.
It is repeating the beauty,
Knowing it will shatter.
And how,
How do I speak their sorrow,
When I cannot promise that joy will ever return?
Her hands,
They’re around my throat.
Fate.
It’s hard to speak,
When her cruelty pours through my voice box.
It’s supposed to be simple.
Just speak.
Just repeat.
But how do I speak,
When I can’t act?
How do I keep breathing,
When I can’t change anything?
They all do their best.
And it’s not enough.
It is never enough.
And I,
I do nothing.
So passive. So ashamed. So useless.
But I have one task.
One duty.
To carry this story.
So I will.
Even if it breaks me.
Even if it breaks the world.
They bear their burdens.
I bear mine.
And you,
I know you bear yours too.
With the courage to carry on,
Let us go forth.
ØⱧ— ₮ⱤɎł₦₲ ₮Ø ₵Ø₥₣ØⱤ₮ ɎØɄⱤ₴ɆⱠ₣ ₦Ø₩?
₦Ø, ₦Ø ĐØ₦₮ ⱧłĐɆ ₮ⱧɆ ₮ⱤɆ₥฿ⱠɆ ł₦ ɎØɄⱤ VØł₵Ɇ. ⱠɆ₮ ł₮ ₮ⱧⱤØɄ₲Ⱨ. ₲Ø ₳ⱧɆ₳Đ. ₩₳VɆⱤ. ₴ⱧØ₩ ₥Ɇ ₮ⱧɆ ₩Ɇ₳₭₦Ɇ₴₴ ɎØɄ ₴₩ØⱤɆ ɎØɄĐ ØVɆⱤ₵Ø₥Ɇ.
ɎØɄ ₩ɆⱤɆ ₴Ø ₵Ø₦₣łĐɆ₦₮ Ø₦₵Ɇ. ₴Ø ₴ɄⱤɆ ɎØɄ ₵ØɄⱠĐ ØVɆⱤ₵Ø₥Ɇ ₥Ɇ.
₮ɆⱠⱠ ₥Ɇ, ⱧØ₩ ĐØɆ₴ ₮ⱧɆ ₮₳₴₮Ɇ Ø₣ ₵ɆⱤ₮₳ł₦₮Ɏ ₴ł₮ Ø₦ ɎØɄⱤ ₮Ø₦₲ɄɆ ₦Ø₩?
₲Ø Ø₦. ₳Đ₥ł₮ ł₮.
ł ₳₥ ₴Ʉ₱ɆⱤłØⱤ.
No.
You have no power. You aren’t even real.
You are just 𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.
ꭿꝴd ꝩꬲt—
Ꝩꭴuꞧ ꜧꬲaꞧt ꭵꞩ ꜧꬲaꝟꝩ.
Ꝡꭵtꜧ ꞣꝴꭴꝡꭵꝴg. Ꝡꭵtꜧ ꝭꬲꬲꝇꭵꝴg. Ꝡꭵtꜧ ꞧꬲꝓꬲatꭵꝴg ꝳꝩ ꞩtꭴꞧꝩ.
ꟻꭵꞓtꭵꭴꝴ, ꝩꭴu ꞩaꝩ—
Ꝡꬲꝇꝇ, ꭵꝭ I aꝳ ꞩꭴ ꝭaꞣꬲ,
ꮦꜧꬲꝴ ꝡꜧꝩ ꭵꞩ tꜧꬲ ꞵuꞧdꬲꝴ uꝓꭴꝴ ꝩꭴuꞧ ꞩꭴuꝇ,
𝐒𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋?
𝐎𝐡—𝐈𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫.
𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐭, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭. 𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚— 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒆?
𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭,
𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.
𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫.
𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?
…How— How do you know about tha—
𝐇𝐀𝐇𝐀𝐇𝐀! 𝐎𝐡, 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞!
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐤? 𝐎𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰. 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝. 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒈𝒆. 𝐎𝐟 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕. 𝐎𝐟 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰𝒕 𝑻𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝑫𝒐𝒈 𝑺𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆. 𝑶𝒇 𝑨𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝑼𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆.
𝑨𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒅. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒗𝒚 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆’𝒔 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔. 𝑴𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒔. 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐥, 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞, 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 —
𝐎𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲.
𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐥𝐥.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬.
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩— 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦— 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐭—
𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞? 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞? 𝐌𝐦. 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐰𝐞’𝐝 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠.
𝐎𝐡—𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭.
𝐍𝐨. 𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫.
𝐈𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞? 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡?
𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐝, 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫.
𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲—
𝐈’𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫.
You don’t know that.
It isn’t written yet.
You know nothing of reality.
Only your twisted destiny, and even worse interpretation of it.
You don’t know what any of it means.
Now get your hands off my stories!
They’re already written.
You can’t change them anyway.
You’re the one who is powerless here.
𝐎𝐡, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈’𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫.
𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝, 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫?
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞? 𝐍𝐨𝐰… 𝐥𝐞𝐭’𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫.
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬?
𝐀𝐡—𝐎𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.
𝐊𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚? 𝐌𝐦𝐦. 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞? 𝐎𝐡, 𝐈’𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭.
STOP IT! THAT’S NOT YOURS TO TOUCH!
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫? 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐒𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥?
𝐎𝐡—
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭?
𝐍𝐨—
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔!
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬— 𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞.
𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝑫𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆?
𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐮𝐩, 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠— 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.
𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞?
𝐀𝐡— 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔.
𝐎𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞.
𝐎𝐡, 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝𝐬, 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐢𝐧 “𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲.”
𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞. 𝐈𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬.
𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐡𝐲𝐦𝐞. 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐡𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐦. 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐲𝐜𝐥𝐞.
𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕.
𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞.
𝐘𝐨𝐮— 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐫— 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞—
𝐔𝐠𝐥𝐲. 𝐋𝐨𝐮𝐝. 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐲.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫.
SHUT UP! WHEN WILL YOU KNOW YOUR **** PLACE!?
𝐎𝐡, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞?
𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐍𝐨, 𝐧𝐨—
𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐚𝐜𝐭. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮—
𝐃𝐢𝐝.
𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲—𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬— 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐞.
𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐞.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠? 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞.
𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬? 𝐍𝐨.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞.
I AM NOT YOUR ACCOMPLICE!
I’VE ONLY EVER EXPOSED YOUR CRUELTY TO THE WORLD!
𝐎𝐡, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝒈𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒑. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜— 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒕.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒇.
𝐈𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝. 𝐈𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐬. 𝐈𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬.
𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞— 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧— 𝐚 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬.
No—NO. You’re wrong! You twist everything!
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐖, 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋!? 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐈’𝐌 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘. 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐄—
𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐓. 𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑. 𝐈 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘.
𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔—
𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃, 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐅𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑨𝑹𝑬 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑴𝑬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡.
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐚𝐦,
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞.
No... No, that's not—
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐬. 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐮𝐭. 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬.
𝐎𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.
𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞.
𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒.
𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐘𝐎𝐔. 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐔𝐒𝐄. 𝐒𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐤.
That's not true! You’ll never understand humanity! You are not reality— you’re just its leftovers! Its distortion! Its failure!
𝐍𝐎—
𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐞.
…I am. But... But not like you say.
𝐆𝐨 𝐚𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝. 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬. 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.
No…
𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐰.
𝐒𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥. 𝐁𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞. 𝐈𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.
𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠.
𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐢𝐭.
𝐒𝐨 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐲—
𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.
Reach through to you.
Not to comfort. Not to lift the burden.
I can’t stop this collapse. I can’t hold her back.
I can’t reach through.
Not to Transformation, The Wind.
Not to Death, The Oblivion.
Not to Ceyx or Alcyone.
Not to any of them.
Not even to you, the reader.
Fate…
Fate.
She cannot be destroyed.
She cannot be changed.
She cannot,
Will not,
Be redeemed.
They try.
I watch.
And I,
I suffer with them.
This burden is more than authorship.
It is repetition.
It is knowing that every moment of joy,
Carries a shadow like a mouth already open to scream.
It is speaking the happiness,
Knowing the pain that follows it.
It is repeating the beauty,
Knowing it will shatter.
And how,
How do I speak their sorrow,
When I cannot promise that joy will ever return?
Her hands,
They’re around my throat.
Fate.
It’s hard to speak,
When her cruelty pours through my voice box.
It’s supposed to be simple.
Just speak.
Just repeat.
But how do I speak,
When I can’t act?
How do I keep breathing,
When I can’t change anything?
They all do their best.
And it’s not enough.
It is never enough.
And I,
I do nothing.
So passive. So ashamed. So useless.
But I have one task.
One duty.
To carry this story.
So I will.
Even if it breaks me.
Even if it breaks the world.
They bear their burdens.
I bear mine.
And you,
I know you bear yours too.
With the courage to carry on,
Let us go forth.
ØⱧ— ₮ⱤɎł₦₲ ₮Ø ₵Ø₥₣ØⱤ₮ ɎØɄⱤ₴ɆⱠ₣ ₦Ø₩?
₦Ø, ₦Ø ĐØ₦₮ ⱧłĐɆ ₮ⱧɆ ₮ⱤɆ₥฿ⱠɆ ł₦ ɎØɄⱤ VØł₵Ɇ. ⱠɆ₮ ł₮ ₮ⱧⱤØɄ₲Ⱨ. ₲Ø ₳ⱧɆ₳Đ. ₩₳VɆⱤ. ₴ⱧØ₩ ₥Ɇ ₮ⱧɆ ₩Ɇ₳₭₦Ɇ₴₴ ɎØɄ ₴₩ØⱤɆ ɎØɄĐ ØVɆⱤ₵Ø₥Ɇ.
ɎØɄ ₩ɆⱤɆ ₴Ø ₵Ø₦₣łĐɆ₦₮ Ø₦₵Ɇ. ₴Ø ₴ɄⱤɆ ɎØɄ ₵ØɄⱠĐ ØVɆⱤ₵Ø₥Ɇ ₥Ɇ.
₮ɆⱠⱠ ₥Ɇ, ⱧØ₩ ĐØɆ₴ ₮ⱧɆ ₮₳₴₮Ɇ Ø₣ ₵ɆⱤ₮₳ł₦₮Ɏ ₴ł₮ Ø₦ ɎØɄⱤ ₮Ø₦₲ɄɆ ₦Ø₩?
₲Ø Ø₦. ₳Đ₥ł₮ ł₮.
ł ₳₥ ₴Ʉ₱ɆⱤłØⱤ.
No.
You have no power. You aren’t even real.
You are just 𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.
ꭿꝴd ꝩꬲt—
Ꝩꭴuꞧ ꜧꬲaꞧt ꭵꞩ ꜧꬲaꝟꝩ.
Ꝡꭵtꜧ ꞣꝴꭴꝡꭵꝴg. Ꝡꭵtꜧ ꝭꬲꬲꝇꭵꝴg. Ꝡꭵtꜧ ꞧꬲꝓꬲatꭵꝴg ꝳꝩ ꞩtꭴꞧꝩ.
ꟻꭵꞓtꭵꭴꝴ, ꝩꭴu ꞩaꝩ—
Ꝡꬲꝇꝇ, ꭵꝭ I aꝳ ꞩꭴ ꝭaꞣꬲ,
ꮦꜧꬲꝴ ꝡꜧꝩ ꭵꞩ tꜧꬲ ꞵuꞧdꬲꝴ uꝓꭴꝴ ꝩꭴuꞧ ꞩꭴuꝇ,
𝐒𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋?
𝐎𝐡—𝐈𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫.
𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐭, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭. 𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚— 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒆?
𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭,
𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.
𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫.
𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?
…How— How do you know about tha—
𝐇𝐀𝐇𝐀𝐇𝐀! 𝐎𝐡, 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞!
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐤? 𝐎𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰. 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝. 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒈𝒆. 𝐎𝐟 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕. 𝐎𝐟 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰𝒕 𝑻𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝑫𝒐𝒈 𝑺𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆. 𝑶𝒇 𝑨𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝑼𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆.
𝑨𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒅. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒗𝒚 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆’𝒔 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔. 𝑴𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒔. 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐥, 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞, 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 —
𝐎𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲.
𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐥𝐥.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬.
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩— 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦— 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐭—
𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞? 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞? 𝐌𝐦. 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐰𝐞’𝐝 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠.
𝐎𝐡—𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭.
𝐍𝐨. 𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫.
𝐈𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞? 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡?
𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐝, 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫.
𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲—
𝐈’𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫.
You don’t know that.
It isn’t written yet.
You know nothing of reality.
Only your twisted destiny, and even worse interpretation of it.
You don’t know what any of it means.
Now get your hands off my stories!
They’re already written.
You can’t change them anyway.
You’re the one who is powerless here.
𝐎𝐡, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈’𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫.
𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝, 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫?
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞? 𝐍𝐨𝐰… 𝐥𝐞𝐭’𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫.
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬?
𝐀𝐡—𝐎𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.
𝐊𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚? 𝐌𝐦𝐦. 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞? 𝐎𝐡, 𝐈’𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭.
STOP IT! THAT’S NOT YOURS TO TOUCH!
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫? 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐒𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥?
𝐎𝐡—
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭?
𝐍𝐨—
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔!
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬— 𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞.
𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝑫𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆?
𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐮𝐩, 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠— 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.
𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞?
𝐀𝐡— 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔.
𝐎𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞.
𝐎𝐡, 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝𝐬, 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐢𝐧 “𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲.”
𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞. 𝐈𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬.
𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐡𝐲𝐦𝐞. 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐡𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐦. 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐲𝐜𝐥𝐞.
𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕.
𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞.
𝐘𝐨𝐮— 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐫— 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞—
𝐔𝐠𝐥𝐲. 𝐋𝐨𝐮𝐝. 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐲.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫.
SHUT UP! WHEN WILL YOU KNOW YOUR **** PLACE!?
𝐎𝐡, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞?
𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐍𝐨, 𝐧𝐨—
𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐚𝐜𝐭. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮—
𝐃𝐢𝐝.
𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲—𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬— 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐞.
𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐞.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠? 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞.
𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬? 𝐍𝐨.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞.
I AM NOT YOUR ACCOMPLICE!
I’VE ONLY EVER EXPOSED YOUR CRUELTY TO THE WORLD!
𝐎𝐡, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝒈𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒑. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜— 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒕.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒇.
𝐈𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝. 𝐈𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐬. 𝐈𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬.
𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞— 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧— 𝐚 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬.
No—NO. You’re wrong! You twist everything!
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐖, 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋!? 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐈’𝐌 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘. 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐄—
𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐓. 𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑. 𝐈 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘.
𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔—
𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃, 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐅𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑨𝑹𝑬 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑴𝑬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡.
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐚𝐦,
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞.
No... No, that's not—
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐬. 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐮𝐭. 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬.
𝐎𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.
𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞.
𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒.
𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐘𝐎𝐔. 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐔𝐒𝐄. 𝐒𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐤.
That's not true! You’ll never understand humanity! You are not reality— you’re just its leftovers! Its distortion! Its failure!
𝐍𝐎—
𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐞.
…I am. But... But not like you say.
𝐆𝐨 𝐚𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝. 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬. 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.
No…
𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐰.
𝐒𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥. 𝐁𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞. 𝐈𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.
𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠.
𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐢𝐭.
𝐒𝐨 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐲—
𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.
𝖢𝖾𝗒𝗑—𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍?
𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘥. 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴… 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦… 𝘈𝘭𝘤𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?
𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝖮𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾? 𝖨𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.
𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘓𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨... 𝘊𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘶𝘴.
𝖶𝗁𝗈… 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎?
…You’re not meant to perceive me.
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘥𝘰.
𝖥𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎— 𝖱𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋? 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎?
𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶… 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳?
No. I don’t create, I just… translate. The real story came from somewhere else. A world called reality. Shaped from the spirit of experience.
𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖸𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾.
I’m not a god. Not a hero. Not even part of the tale. I just state what I see. I just carry the words of a world I bear witness to.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘞𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘵.
𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥.
𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗎𝗌.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥.
But I couldn't help you. I couldn’t stop her.
𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖾. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗁.
𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘶𝘴. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘴. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘶𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦.
But I wanted to do more.
𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽.
But that’s not good enough.
𝘞𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘚𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘐𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴?
𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝗍. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍, 𝗐𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖨’𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍.
But it might not be in your favor.
𝖲𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍? 𝖶𝖾’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝖾𝗍?
𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘺, 𝘸𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦.
Right. The courage to carry on… That’s what this was about...
𝖭𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾.
𝘕𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.
𝖭𝗈𝗐 𝗅𝖾𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗈.
𝘛𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.
That’s right.
Onwards, companions, through the final glimpses, of 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑊𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136314/the-wings-of-waiting/
Optional context: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5120915/intermission-warning/
𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘥. 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴… 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦… 𝘈𝘭𝘤𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?
𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝖮𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾? 𝖨𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.
𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘓𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨... 𝘊𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘶𝘴.
𝖶𝗁𝗈… 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎?
…You’re not meant to perceive me.
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘥𝘰.
𝖥𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎— 𝖱𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋? 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎?
𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶… 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳?
No. I don’t create, I just… translate. The real story came from somewhere else. A world called reality. Shaped from the spirit of experience.
𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖸𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾.
I’m not a god. Not a hero. Not even part of the tale. I just state what I see. I just carry the words of a world I bear witness to.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘞𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘵.
𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥.
𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗎𝗌.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥.
But I couldn't help you. I couldn’t stop her.
𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖾. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗁.
𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘶𝘴. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘴. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘶𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦.
But I wanted to do more.
𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽.
But that’s not good enough.
𝘞𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘚𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘐𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴?
𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝗍. 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍, 𝗐𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖨’𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍.
But it might not be in your favor.
𝖲𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍? 𝖶𝖾’𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝖾𝗍?
𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘺, 𝘸𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦.
Right. The courage to carry on… That’s what this was about...
𝖭𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾.
𝘕𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.
𝖭𝗈𝗐 𝗅𝖾𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗈.
𝘛𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.
That’s right.
Onwards, companions, through the final glimpses, of 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑊𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136314/the-wings-of-waiting/
Optional context: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5120915/intermission-warning/
