So many reasons to say Please.
The romantically inclined- I too always perceived them as weak. I guess I think now that I was wrong, for even if not the strongest, who is the bravest warrior- the one that goes forth triply re-enforced in armor they have surmized to be impervious, or the one who rides out with his heart shining on his sleeve, the one who rides out actually having something to protect?
I hear it, I know it too, even to an extent- how nauseating. I have never had a taste for heroes, except as easy victims- those who will die first for a cause. Take me, not my love they cry and I, being the dubious villain fate has made me to be, would usually try to take both.
But in the end who isn't a victim? Even the hardest heart can grow weary of its lonely, imprisoning crust. Even the strongest arms grow weaker when time and too many battles have had their way.
And who then dies cleaner, dies easier, heads to a brighter paradise?
Yes. I get it. This is sickening. But I've grown old, and I've grown sick of being my mother's assassin. I have lost the taste for the wetwork she had given me as my portion.
This town is filled with people who are empty shells, and that's the point, isn't it? You're here for the Judgement. Here to be judged. You almost welcome the moment She will suck out what's left of you like oysters lined up before the Walrus and the Carpenter.
Maybe you're just longing to be known and appreciated in those last moments. To hear Her smack Her noble lips in satisfaction, die knowing that for that brief time you gave Her something She could love.
Empty shells driven... maybe you have that one, last good thing you do oh so well- solve the puzzle. Heal the dying. Rock the rollers. And so you're waiting for the big gig, the farewell performance.
Why? Because in your heart of hearts you know what made you unique also never made you whole, satisfied.
I have a chance now. Someone I want to be with. Someone who might- just might- get me through the darkness.
Someone worth dying for.
Deal with it.
I hear it, I know it too, even to an extent- how nauseating. I have never had a taste for heroes, except as easy victims- those who will die first for a cause. Take me, not my love they cry and I, being the dubious villain fate has made me to be, would usually try to take both.
But in the end who isn't a victim? Even the hardest heart can grow weary of its lonely, imprisoning crust. Even the strongest arms grow weaker when time and too many battles have had their way.
And who then dies cleaner, dies easier, heads to a brighter paradise?
Yes. I get it. This is sickening. But I've grown old, and I've grown sick of being my mother's assassin. I have lost the taste for the wetwork she had given me as my portion.
This town is filled with people who are empty shells, and that's the point, isn't it? You're here for the Judgement. Here to be judged. You almost welcome the moment She will suck out what's left of you like oysters lined up before the Walrus and the Carpenter.
Maybe you're just longing to be known and appreciated in those last moments. To hear Her smack Her noble lips in satisfaction, die knowing that for that brief time you gave Her something She could love.
Empty shells driven... maybe you have that one, last good thing you do oh so well- solve the puzzle. Heal the dying. Rock the rollers. And so you're waiting for the big gig, the farewell performance.
Why? Because in your heart of hearts you know what made you unique also never made you whole, satisfied.
I have a chance now. Someone I want to be with. Someone who might- just might- get me through the darkness.
Someone worth dying for.
Deal with it.