darzi zodiia|district 7|fin

godless night.

Hearts don't break. They...they, I don't know. They are not things to be toyed with, things to be manipulated. Hearts breathe, and live, and they

die.

They do not die in silence; they die in glory and crashing and burning, and you feel the holocaust inside until - it all goes so dark and so cold. So very cold, like the gnarled fingers of winter wind stilling your veins, turning your hair bloodless with frost and regret. Regret. How funny should such a volatile thing be placed in the anaemic grasps of winter. How funny that regret overpowers love. How funny that-

hearts are not immortal.

They may seem like it, hearts are machines, exercising control in all things, the scientist, manic and lethargic instantaneously. They are hypersensitive to emotion, attuned to each pulse, each breath, crashing into lusting, fervent arias or into still quietude. These are the hearts of people that live, the hearts of those who haven't faced the cynicism of cold. These people are more often youthful and spry, eyes melted in the small lids of their sockets, their small visages incandescent with a blissful smile - and there are others. Others that are not quite alive, but not quite dead either. They smile too - they laugh, they dance, they sing, but their eyes - their eyes are...shallow. Their visages are not dewy with jovial feeling, their eyes not saturated with youth. 

Their eyes are rusted, maybe, in disuse, quickly tarnishing, their interior angry with pain. But they force themselves, their exterior to live, a puppet on strings. But you can see it, in the swirl of lines around their eyes, the shiver in their curved lips, a wrinkle permanently etched in their forehead - these people are in the process of rot, slowly turning dark and twisted. Some are lucky enough to be revived, but others go unnoticed, for the world really may be blind. 

Some are left long enough in slow, burning agony that they still. The rot has overtaken their soul, their motions. They are instantly noticed my many, more so often shunned and wrought with pitiful glances. They hear nothing, feel nothing, they are numb, and they are dead men walking. They are skeletons without muscle, eyes without sight, lungs without breath. Oh no, they still are alive, but they don't live. I am these people. I am alive, yet I don't live.

Everyone starts out as living, if only for the briefest amount of time.

(have you seen the dirty-necked children with eyes too big for their skulls, all alone)


I was the happiest woman in the world but what a small world it is until -

I don't know. Please, I beg, I wan't him back! Pleasepleaseplease.


I am on my knees, begging for forgiveness, so that I may reclaim the aliveness I once clutched so close to my chest, that my heart and it beat as one. I remember a bouquet of (roses, tulips, forget-me-nots?), a chaste kiss on my cheek just before nightfall, someone to hold on to, someone who always tucked a chrysanthemum between my follicles of hair before a dance, intense, verdant eyes on my colorless gaze. But now, Darzi Zodiia remembers nothing, not that she wants to.


Can I just let go? No.

embrace me.