Deja Rexian :||: D7 :||: FIN

    The chuck of an axe clangs around my skull, the particles of bark fluttering just centimeters from my crystal blue eyes. The sweat beading down my reddened shoulders. The same shoulders that are also speckled with little brown dots. My pale skin can hardly be seen under these dots that riddle my shoulders and upper chest, but grandmother had always said they granted me originality. After a few more clings of the axe, I have broken the trunks surface, the light brown innards of the tree can now be seen clearly, the scent of sap and pine waft through the spring breeze. I pull my left hand to my forehead, wiping some of the steaming beads of sweat, squeezing my raspberry red locks, hoping to drain them of some of the sweat. 

    I start to feel the callus on my right thumb burn. The rough hilt of the axe rubbing it the wrong way. After a few more painful swings I feel the shred of my skin, and watch as the crimson blood leaks from my thumb, ever so slowly trickling down my fingertips. I bring the wound to my tongue, expelling some of the pain with the suction of my lips. I taste that somehow satisfying metallic flavor of my own blood. The flow slowly starts to come to an end, and I begin striking the tree once more. 

    To my left was a man who stood roughly a foot taller then me, and to my right a women who stood about four inches taller. I had never been lanky like my siblings, I was around five feet six inches, though this had never become a hindrance, not until the fowl words of children began to be spat. Me lacking in height was all they seemed to hover their attention upon. I was too bulky, too pale, too red, too nice, and I smiled too often. The list of flaws that have been set upon me by the mouths of others is endless. 

    I refuse to pass judgment to those that I have no right to judge. I see all humans as equal because who is to say who has acquired a greater beauty? Who is responsible for beauty even becoming something of reality? Beauty is simply a word to describe those that are self conscious, those that thirst for recognition, and those who could never understand their own stupidity. I refuse to simplify my own brain, to believe that these false grasps for something other then equality are anything more then that...false. Humans are machines made to be born, live, and die, there is no other function. Therefore the only thing making one human greater then another is the stupidity of the human race itself. 

    Mother has always said that I can be the best there is, if only I put my head in the right place, but she was simply expressing more false belief. For my head was nowhere other then upon my neck, and I could not be the best among a group of equals. I could trick the world into believing I am the bets with false information, and trickery of the human brain. But that was all just for show, in reality I could never truly be the "best". 

    Father had always said to give nothing less then my best, but what amounted to my best? What made my actions better, and what made them worse? This world was so contradicting. Everything was surrounded by its own maze, and moat of alligators. With each conflict only came more conflict, and with each victory only came more defeat. Why live in a world made for those with little minds? I had always envied those born in District Three, their minds being recognized as some of the best...that word still used to title those who we are told are superior. 

I felt as if I had a mind that deserved recognition, but what if those around me possessed the same knowledge and just refused to share it? It reminds me of that saying "if a tree falls and no one is around to hear, does it really make a sound?" well logically of course it does, because vibrations are rattling through the atmosphere creating sound waved thus producing sound. But it has made me wonder, if thought are kept to yourself are they even thoughts at all? No on other then yourself recognizes them as a thought, and who is to say that you legitimize them? 

My thinking always seemed to scare mother and father, they would always give me glances and nods, but I knew they disapproved. They had spent my entire life telling me to just stay quiet, bow my head and swing the axe. So that is what I have done, not because I find joy in this, but because I have no right to deny, I have no power over them, but they too have no power over me. Other then the pure fact that their blood has intertwined to create me, we have no other bond. It would seem as though I'm a human lacking emotion, but this is untrue, I feel just as much as everyone else, but if I keep my feelings to myself, are they really felt?