So this is what it means to die.
I keep thinking, should I cry, should I shout, should I reach out for something to hold on to-but when I've finally stopped my heart from racing too fast, I try all this and more-and my eyes spill nothing, my mouth yields silence; all that I hold passes through my hands.
My hands. These hands that once guided me through water and showed all the world what I could do; these hands that spilled the blood of hundred of creatures so that their spirits could rest. Who am I now, who has done so much with these rough hands; held on to love for a fading moment, gripped on to destiny with full force, slain my father and set him free.
All that death that I saw in such a short time-was it ever so breathtaking? My skin isn't real anymore. It's just transparent, a mirage that shimmers and refracts in the wind. I feel all of my body is still there, but it's so light, so airy. What if somebody were to exhale too near me, would a part of me be carried off in their breath? Maybe now the tears start to seep through.
Crybaby. They would always say it-those closest to me-the people who gave their lives to save something bigger than themselves. And here I follow in their footsteps and I give everything to the same end. How could you not cry? No. I'm sure they cried. Not before me, not where anyone could see-but I'm sure they cried. They fought too hard not to.
And I fought their fights. I fought their fights and more. We got wound up in all of this so fast we didn't have time to cry out in resistance, and we fought every fight plunging forward, every night going to sleep exhausted and worried and a little scared, every morning waking up resolute and strong and a little weary. We kept all the scars, on our flesh and in our hearts.
That's how we pushed through it all. Simply let go and left our sails to the wind, and something drove us, something pushed us to the summit and beyond. Call it fate, call it luck, call it Yevon-call it whatever you will, but something exceeded our fragile bonds and carried us through. Ask me now how I summoned up the courage to fight terror itself-to fight a nameless fear that carried my father inside it-and I could not tell you. How any of us could do what we did and still find time to smile; it's a time of many miracles, I guess.
I'm so tired. Maybe death is just a respite now-for all I've seen and done in such a short time, I feel older than I should be. I'm tired from standing up so long to be a hero...as I'm sure the Fayth are tired of dreaming so long to bring me to life.
And there. Yuna.
I try to hold her but she's passing right through me. But...it's like it always was when I was with her. These hands hold on to love for a fading moment and my heart begins to swell a little with regret, with the sorrow that comes to you in these moments, the kind of sorrow that can't be explained in words, but is always cruelly clear in the language of feelings.
My body dissipates more and more, like the sky drains it away-I have to leave now. And I turn from her, I turn from all of them and my heart is filled to the brim with that painful sadness, so heavy that it almost weighs me down. All my mind can say is 'How can I leave this? Why am I being ripped away?' And so I know-
That is what it means to die.
I run and I jump and all of a sudden the weariness and despair of these dark days tumbled out of me and scatters in the air and I am flying. And I know then that for all the pain of this story, it was my story, and I wouldn't have written it any other way.
I guess this is what it means to have lived.
I keep thinking, should I cry, should I shout, should I reach out for something to hold on to-but when I've finally stopped my heart from racing too fast, I try all this and more-and my eyes spill nothing, my mouth yields silence; all that I hold passes through my hands.
My hands. These hands that once guided me through water and showed all the world what I could do; these hands that spilled the blood of hundred of creatures so that their spirits could rest. Who am I now, who has done so much with these rough hands; held on to love for a fading moment, gripped on to destiny with full force, slain my father and set him free.
All that death that I saw in such a short time-was it ever so breathtaking? My skin isn't real anymore. It's just transparent, a mirage that shimmers and refracts in the wind. I feel all of my body is still there, but it's so light, so airy. What if somebody were to exhale too near me, would a part of me be carried off in their breath? Maybe now the tears start to seep through.
Crybaby. They would always say it-those closest to me-the people who gave their lives to save something bigger than themselves. And here I follow in their footsteps and I give everything to the same end. How could you not cry? No. I'm sure they cried. Not before me, not where anyone could see-but I'm sure they cried. They fought too hard not to.
And I fought their fights. I fought their fights and more. We got wound up in all of this so fast we didn't have time to cry out in resistance, and we fought every fight plunging forward, every night going to sleep exhausted and worried and a little scared, every morning waking up resolute and strong and a little weary. We kept all the scars, on our flesh and in our hearts.
That's how we pushed through it all. Simply let go and left our sails to the wind, and something drove us, something pushed us to the summit and beyond. Call it fate, call it luck, call it Yevon-call it whatever you will, but something exceeded our fragile bonds and carried us through. Ask me now how I summoned up the courage to fight terror itself-to fight a nameless fear that carried my father inside it-and I could not tell you. How any of us could do what we did and still find time to smile; it's a time of many miracles, I guess.
I'm so tired. Maybe death is just a respite now-for all I've seen and done in such a short time, I feel older than I should be. I'm tired from standing up so long to be a hero...as I'm sure the Fayth are tired of dreaming so long to bring me to life.
And there. Yuna.
I try to hold her but she's passing right through me. But...it's like it always was when I was with her. These hands hold on to love for a fading moment and my heart begins to swell a little with regret, with the sorrow that comes to you in these moments, the kind of sorrow that can't be explained in words, but is always cruelly clear in the language of feelings.
My body dissipates more and more, like the sky drains it away-I have to leave now. And I turn from her, I turn from all of them and my heart is filled to the brim with that painful sadness, so heavy that it almost weighs me down. All my mind can say is 'How can I leave this? Why am I being ripped away?' And so I know-
That is what it means to die.
I run and I jump and all of a sudden the weariness and despair of these dark days tumbled out of me and scatters in the air and I am flying. And I know then that for all the pain of this story, it was my story, and I wouldn't have written it any other way.
I guess this is what it means to have lived.