In seven days you can finish a book. In seven days you can paint a masterpiece. In seven days you can grow a plant. In seven days you can have a festival.
In seven days you can die.
You know the feeling, how almost everything seems to have lost its sense in the world after a mildly chaotic discovery, how the atmosphere around you is compatible to soup and how it takes almost as much effort to climb mount Everest just to breath?
You know that feeling?
I don't think there's anything worse than losing your family.
I doubt someone would ever not judge me. I doubt someone will stare at me for a full several minutes, gazing at me and thinking, pondering 'who is she, and what is her story?'
My story isn't one to be told. My story isn't meant to be alive.
A star can live longer, for it seems eternal to us mere humans, an exquisite burning sense of passion in the middle of an empty black landscape. Yet a flower, a tiny delicate common flower, lives only for a season, before it wilts into the dirt.
You don't see a flower outgrowing a star. It is not humanly possible.
Yet I did it.
I witnessed my sisters die, my two cousins. The four shining stars, and me, poor frail Narcissa still alive, still breathing, still carrying the weight of the world against my bony shoulders.
Are you happy now?
A/N
Haha hi. So I fail at drabbles. Cheers if you understand what I mean. I barely know what I'm talking about myself. Basically though, it's just Narcissa's little confession time on how it feels like to be alone.
