There He Is.
All shadows tucked under that faded leather jacket of his and yet they never fail to be blinded by the false neon lights he shines. His life requires the creases in his shirts, in his soul, needs all those ripped edges of his pants, his mind. Leaning on sanity and on each other, that's how people survive but not he. He who has an almost religious blind faith in all things evil and crazy. He who had not and knows not to trust himself and that's how he breaks. Because he leaned too much and on too little.
How can one sit on a two-legged chair?
How can he, when one is living in the past and the other is dying for a future. He stands. With them. Between them. Beside them. Never leaves them, no, not really.
Stares out in windows and when his smile don't quite reach his eyes, he is there looking for his past. Grips hard enough to bruise and yet his feet leads you to safety, he doesn't let go because he is taking care of his future. Whispers promises of forever in paradise and yet touches as if he it's the last time, as if he is gonna disappear tomorrow and never come back, he is because he only exist in the present, in the now. Never in they why, the when, the where, not even the what...but always in the how and the now. Crosses his legs, see how children cross their fingers, he sits back into everything he is not.
He is not wood yet he burns silently.
He is not an ammunition but he feels like it right now.
He is not a rock to be thrown away and picked up again.
He is not a stick to be used to point and beat.
He is not a candle, he is a dynamite.
He is not, who is he again and what is this blade doing in his hands?
He is not a pair of wings to be strapped upon in a freaking sibling rivalry of angelic proportions.
He is not gonna wonder why people he cares about likes to betray him, or hurt him, or leave him, he is not gonna.
He is not Dean Winchester /he died, but everybody does/ and he doesn't know why he is anymore.
