Who can put words to feelings?
How can but a few scrawled sentiments convey the despair and emptiness that I was created for?
Words hold little meaning, between the heart and the mouth people can lie, and twist and warp. Till what they say and what they feel are as close as two strangers passing in the night.
This is why I do not speak, or try at least to avoid it.
How can I express the pain a mother feels holding her dying son in her arms? Or the open terror felt by the condemned? I can not, so I will be the only one to see, and to understand. I must be the silent witness; I'll bare the scars of this war as I have so many times before.
I know the unsaid words that are spoken when someone screams in pain, the prayer for retribution in their dying breath, that somehow, this pain was for a reason. This nightmare, for a dream.
Another scar will map my body, the history of inhumanity scrawled upon my skin.
I wonder how much more can I hold? When will I cease to exist behind the pain of others? I can not be looked upon, too ugly for hallowed heaven, too much the reminder of all he's done. Yet must I always just watch? Can I too dream? Hope for a time where pain and suffering, god and war, when it all will be but a bitter memory?
Quatre has this dream, of a world of peace, of love and harmony. Perhaps that's all it is, a dream, a collection of words and sentiments without truth or feeling.
But if I can feel love for him, even through the pain of others, then maybe I can die for this dream, and can find a reason within all this agony I've been sent to gorge on.
I can hope, though I am in despair, because I feel, it means I'm alive, and without hope, we are already dead!
Trowa Barton, the angel of pain.
