Pretty. Odd.
Breathe, darling, breathe.
A shattered heart is no heart of mine, no sir. I gave mine away- prematurely, as all dreamers do- and it got smashed. I am, by definition, (though I am one hundred percent undefinable,) an almost crazy somewhat heartless parabnormality and that is just the way I like it. But somewhat heartless girls, dreamers especially, still have hearts, and giving it away was my choice and mine alone, and the repercussions no one's fault but mine. There's plenty of blame to go around, of course, there always is, but no matter how much I scream and stomp and bargain I am the only one responsible. Even the one who broke my heart and wrecked my mind didn't know he'd done it until far, far too late. Why two fars too late?
I'm dead.
Dead, dead, dead! As a doornail and a corpse, but my body fell too far for the maggots to reach me. Past bedrock, into the Abyss and beyond. (I'm going to tell you a secret, dear reader; I don't have a soul. I am a soul. I have a body. And the same goes for nearly everyone else, except the corporate scumbags who sold theirs for worldly things that will die with them.) I did not go to Heaven, and I did not go to Hell. I am somewhere in-between, the murk and magic in myself caught in the veil like a girl in a spiderweb. I remember hating spiders. I'm not so afraid of them anymore…
Ghost Pokémon were always my favorites, caught between Electric and something I simply can't recall. Black 2, White 2, to distract me from schoolwork and homework and all the like. How ironic that I join their ranks now, disembodied save for those of special sight and hearing, the blind and deaf and special and insane. Come, now, you didn't think insanity was an illness, to be diagnosed and neatly wrapped up with pills and straightjackets? No, insanity is uncontrolled magic gone to rot in the guts of those who can't take it. Overdosing, sometimes by accident and sometimes to poison themselves. That's why you shouldn't do drugs.
Dreams are my favorite method of transport. There was one with a big, lovely bed, ten feet long and wide and it dipped in the center, with thin white sheets and overstuffed white pillows and a thick white blanket, and it hung from posts on the ceiling that slowly swung it back and forth, in a mostly-glass room above a city, just tilted to watch the sunset before the warm blankets and cool breeze and rocking sent you to sleep. Dream things are almost always much better than real things, but that's a given and dreams are earned. Earned by whom, and through what means? By children and dreamers and others lucky enough to catch one as it passes over them, reaching out in their sleep to snatch it from the air and pull it into themselves. Through the means of ice cream before bed, no matter what parents say, and cartoons and a long day of playing outside. Friendship. Heartbreak. Loss. Joy. Christmas. Dreams depend on the person, the occasion and the moon, and other variables I'm not at liberty to discuss.
After all, I am dead.
What was I saying? Oh, yes, I'm a ghost. It's an interesting existence, walking through people to give them cold chills, whispering kind things into the ears of kind people and curses into the ears of the spiteful. The only thing is, He kept me here for a reason- it's always for a reason, that's simply how it works- I just don't know what that reason is. Yet. I'll find it soon, I can feel it, and once I finish whatever it is He left me here to do, which may or may not be my last chance at getting past the pearly gates, I'll be finished. Of course, that's what Deadman thought. Then the Green was corrupted, and he was pulled back out, and he lost his heart and he died again, he had to, and so the Green was restored. I will die again. If I am brought back- if- I will die. That is how it must be. I don't want to cheat Death and I don't want to cheat Him, (and surely you know who He is, don't you?)
So, I roam, watching and waiting and wishing to sleep. The chain of death binds me just as the chain of life did, but this time I will not rebel against the cycle. I will wait. I will be good. I will do as I am told and take my medicine without crying, no matter the taste. I will keep my heart in a small, locked box, where it cramped and dark and hard to breathe, and I will never, never let it out. I will not promise anything to anyone. It will hurt, this much I know, but the hurt will end, as all hurt does, and when it's over, I will hope. Quietly, inwardly, and the box will creak open, but I will be dead again and it will be too late and I will try not to laugh spitefully, but I probably will anyway. I will hope. And perhaps my hope will be dashed to bits, like my body, like my heart. And perhaps it will be filled up to overflowing, drowning me with it's glow. This much I believe, and this much will come to pass, eventually, somehow.
But I am dead.
"I'm sorry."
"Fer what?"
"For ever… ever thinking you would love me. For ever thinking anyone could love me."
"But…"
"Please don't lie. Not now."
"… Ah'm sorry too."
"Yeah. But you'll get over it. The only difference is, I won't."
"Oh."
Mmph. School is here, clawing away at my time and energy, and updates will be far and few between, and so for that I apologize. Many thanks, all.
