birds of a feather {Elsus}
Jun 5, 2018 16:19:05 GMT -5
Post by Arrows on Jun 5, 2018 16:19:05 GMT -5
Some say suffering is the prelude to a symphony of euphoria. There seems to be a general revelation that the world is just and karma powerful. People cling to the possibilities of hope when horrors plague them. When the skies grow dim underneath the dark dread of storming clouds people sing songs for a returning sun. When the world punishes people due to its basic principles, people flail and fall into the devastating pit of denial. Life and its certain cruelties are not redemptive.
I washed them while flakes of frost fell from the sky. I sang to them when the warmth of our Mother was far from our shack. When cries caused by the mysterious darkness of imaginations awoke them at night, it was I who came to their bedsides to comfort them. I raised a family without every bringing forth life from my own body. I was a mother before I was daughter, before I was sister. Kindness compelled me then to give despite the desires of my own aspirations. For family I forfeited selfishness and anger for selflessness and compassion. I built myself into the replica of my name.
I am not surprised. In this moment as I enter the marbled interior of a building I have only ever seen from the outside, I am silent with acceptance. It's only fitting for my name to be the one which came calling from the Capitol. My sister is sewn with strength and dipped delicately in darkness. My brothers have been born with the brains and wills of warriors not raised from the rot of sewage-sewn streets. I am fragile, forged by my own familial sacrifice. I tore away my talons and broke down my beak. I wilted heavy feathers of fortress for feathers of sweet softness. There is no surprise that of all birds born into our flock, I am the one who has been lit ablaze by a storm's strike of light.
Inside a room I wait. I watch while the shadows of figures full of joy journey home in the grace of another year's safety. My fingers feel cold compressed against the glass of the window I stand watching from. I burn away the fear flowing somewhere beneath the acceptance I've obtained. I look out across a land I know will never again see my breathing body stepping through the streets. A land which will never again hear the soft songs of my voice singing late into the tragedies of night.
They come. Of course they come. They stand silent staring at the figure they call sister as though she is a stranger in their presence. I feel my fingers fall from the glass as I turn to greet their gazes. I see the shimmering souls of my siblings, but their eyes lack the illumination they usually contain. How can I blame them for devastation when this is our final meeting before a long lonely migration?
"Don't mourn me long. We aren't a family with time to waste on the dead."
