gregor noctem | twelve ; cb fin

Do you know what, to me, is the greatest mystery in life? It is not the weight of a crown upon a ruler's head, nor the rate at which fire consumes. It is not the circumference of the sun, nor the depths of the ocean. It is not the steps it takes to reach the moon, nor the sounds an abandoned forest makes when no one listens, nor the way music always seems to accompany a memory. All of these things have been solved with some degree of undeniable proof, even the most philosophical of them. But the one thing that remains a mystery to me, despite all my trying, despite my clear authority on the subject, is myself.

I cannot calculate the weight of my own heart without first pulling it from my chest. I cannot map the center of my soul while it still works to make me human. I am a terrible, wonderful, ever-changing thing. The survivor with a shadow and a scar. And I know myself perhaps better than anyone else in the world, and the fear that particular truth evokes lies within the fact that I do not feel I know myself very well at all.

Roses in my hand because, no matter how much time has passed, when I visit the grave of my parents, I still smell the smoke. It makes me wonder what a burning flower would smell like: horrible or godly? I am no longer certain there is a difference. I know I miss them. I know I wish I'd said it sooner. I know I never can.

It's just my brother and I now, a living reflection, the only thing I need. The only thing I care to need.

The only thing I fear to lose.