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Feb 20, 2016 10:38:10 GMT -5
Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Feb 20, 2016 10:38:10 GMT -5
tati pelotte
My art is not all that at all, it's a snapshot of my mind right before the fall. What I write is not with pride, I am not the greatest artist and that's the reason that I hide.
. . .
There's a coldness in the aftermath. It's the kind of chill that creeps up on you like when the refrigerator door is left slightly open for a good few hours: the goosebumps are the first sign that something is wrong but when the warmth in your chest fades away, that's when the realisation hits. My spine feels fragile like ice, as if one more dirty glance could shatter it into a thousand pieces — or worse — melt away the only backbone I've got. My hands try to find comfort in my lap, but it doesn't work because they are too restless with adrenaline and bounce around until they are pressed against the window of the train, trying to capture the few good memories I have of home before it is gone forever.
It's probably best to leave them behind anyway because my emotional baggage is in my blood, and that's heavy enough. The burden of choosing to remember how things used to be or could have been feels wrong; I believe in fate despite my hatred for it, and if this is what was written in the stars for me, then so be it.
Acceptance is the first step.
(towards what, I'm not sure, but progress is still progress.)
It's strange to think that this a moment I have been training my whole life for, but somehow the reality of it does not match with the fantasy. The grand designs of how I think this should play out are not likely to be followed and so, the palace I've built for myself will come crumbling down around me. I have no kingdom for protection and there's just silence as I stare into the eyes of a history that dares to repeat itself. It can toy with me all it wants, it can taunt me, prod and poke me — but it won't change how I feel. I am far too in touch with myself to be affected by something so stark.
I guess I knew this was coming, in a way. Maybe this is my punishment for letting go all those years ago or maybe this is just how it was always supposed to be: two girls, equal hate and love for each other, torn apart but destined for the same fate.
I've wrote stories with similar clichés because the drama is exciting. In fact, I've done it so much that the thrill that is supposed to come with my own story is gone. There's just a dull ache that crescendos into a sigh every once in a while, and despite standing on the shoulders of my sister, I have never felt more alone.
(but what is an artist without torture?)
. . .
Four is washed away by the dark walls of a tunnel, and when the train comes out the other side, we have arrived at the Capitol. My mind blanked somewhere in the middle at the thought of the personal regression that awaits, but the neon lights that ride the wind shake me from my hellish mind. It's a known fact to not walk towards the light, but the colours that they emit are so vibrant and enticing that the personal regression feels less like suicide and more like a side effect of greatness. The sterile glamour of everything grabs me by the throat and spits in my face, and I know that if I don't be exactly who they want me to be then I'll be bones like the rest.
They would never see me as a separate entity, it would be impossible to be an ocean away from Lux — I am simply an extension of the fantasy they have of her: just as unforgiving and dangerous, a story for the ages. I do not want to be another cog that turns the machine and makes the world turn round for anybody other than myself, but I'll strap myself in for a ride if it means that I can get what I want. For years, I have got lost in the words I have written myself, but maybe it's time to leave that behind. No story I could write would ever have the same production value as this.
(but no story I'd write would ever be as cheap.)
Immersion is everything.
Here's to that, then: old dog, new tricks.
