Wilhiem's Angry Ramblings, This Time With More Choppy Sentences [Arch: Jan 22, 2011]
It's the smallest things.
The twist of a shoulder, the turn of a head, the flash of a carved profile, the fluttering of thin fingers, the jagged and uneven steps.
I don't sketch anymore because these small things are burned into the base of my spine, at the very back of my neck - the third vertebrate.
I don't need to, I don't sketch anymore because these small things are always there, nearby, a shout and a smile away.
I don't need to sketch anymore because these small things will probably,
I mean, I hope,
Just- maybe, perhaps,
They will stay with me, and not just my memory.
You bet your scrawny neck I am afraid. You bet your intact ribs and your straightened nose, I am afraid, I am terrified and completely lost.
But this is much like running head-first into a wall made of swords and scythes and broken glass. It's not the rush that makes it worth it, it is what will be beyond that wall when it shatters.
I look back at what I wrote and I wish I could turn around and laugh in my own damned face.
I don't love her, I just need her to keep me in check.
Wilhiem Hammerstorm, you are the very definition of idiocy.
It is never about being happy - it is about working towards being happy. Happiness will come somewhere along the way. The bard died because he believed in instant gratification and refused to work towards it. The bard died because I needed him to - the reckless and unfortunate soul, the part that longed for being alone, of all things, but denied it until the very end.
This is not me.
It was never about being stable. Life is not stable, it is ever-shifting and ever-changing. Whatever foundation you build it upon, it may very well shatter and break, and you need to be prepared. The scribe died because he was unprepared and let himself be broken. The scribe died because I ordered him to - the father, the provider, the self-sheltered soul that could not cope with the real world and misunderstood the very purpose of living.
This is not me.
It was always about survival. It was about perfecting, not perfection. It was about the drive, the strength, and the will. The Executioner is here because he is not dead - and he never will be. He knows. He gets places. At the core, this is what we all are - living beings just trying to remain living, and this world is not soft, it is not forgiving and this is why none of us should be.
This is me, here, living, surviving.
This is me - perfecting and building, growing stronger and knowing what I want.
This is me -
the executions might be in the past, but the executioners will carve out the future.