take anymore, i really can't, dear god, make it stop, just end it, end it now or i'll go mad, i

The great thing about time is that you can't skip it. You have to live every second of your life, every single second. It's both a blessing and a curse.

For example, it would be a blessing if you were happy. If you and your loved one were together – in a field of flowers perhaps – and her arms were around you and her lips were on yours then you would treasure every second like a precious jewel, locking it up in some little box in your memory.

But if your love was stolen from you and all hope lost and everything you held dear was ripped from you in an agony of blood and smoke and death –

will, i know i will, unless you do something or something happens, i feel like everything's just crushing in on me and i can't breathe, like there's no space in my head, like someone crushed my skull and the pieces of bone are pushing in on my brain so that there's no

– then every second would hurt. And you wouldn't keep them, you'd want to get them as far out of your head as possible. You wouldn't lock them up. You'd send them flying out of your head, trying to forget those seconds when life itself was a torment.

But sometimes, you're not strong enough. It takes a lot of energy to keep a thought, to lock it up. It takes even more to send it away. And so that terrifying thing happens, when all the good and happy memories start to fade and you find all you can remember is the awful and horrible things that have happened to you, even when you don't want to. When that happens – when all you can think of is destruction and death and corpses lying in pools of blood –

space to think, no room to breathe, it's truly terrible, i think i'll go mad, this isn't life i'm living, it's hell, a living breathing hell, the damned can't be much worse off than

– then you need to be very careful. Because that's how you go mad, I've heard. When you can't think of the good and only see death in everyone's –

this, they really can't, this feels like fire and pain and blood and burning and all the worst things in the world at once, this is torture, when my own thoughts turn on me and i can't remember, i can't think, i don't even know who i am sometimes, when i lay in bed and

– faces, that that's when you start to go crazy. It's a horrible thing, to go mad. You don't want to.

There's a way to stop it, though. If you can't remember the good, only the bad, then you have to find new, good memories. It's easier to drive out the bad memories if you have strong new ones.

But this can be hard sometimes. Sometimes you can't find good memories. Sometimes you live in a world of metal and wheels, a world where the acts of everyday living aren't about flowers or the ocean or anything worth having. It's a world where every second belongs to war, to a war that can only and has already brought destruction and pain –

it's all dark, i can't remember who i am at all, and it scares me, i feel like nothing, no one, like a forgotten bit of junk thrown away into a corner to rust when the one person who really knows me and cares isn't there to

– and horrible things. It's not a nice world. And sometimes it's hard to find good memories there. The trick to that (and remember, you do this so that you won't become mad) is to find good things in everything. When you walk down the hallway and pass a young woman with a haunted look in her eyes, you mustn't let that remind of your own pain and that your eyes probably look just as haunted as –

help, then despair closes in around me like a black net, and it's all i can do not to scream, though sometimes i do, just to see what

– hers. Instead, you have to notice the nice things about her – like how her shining black hair is braided down her back, and how her eyes are exactly the same gray as storm clouds. If you see a haggard man at lunch, thirsting for the alcohol forbidden to him, you can't let that remind you of how you too are denied something, someone you desperately need, and how she is separated from -

will happen, if maybe the horror surrounding me will change, but it never does, it's always the same, the same never-ending torment, and it never lets up, it never does, every second of every day it gnaws at me like a rat, this unceasing pain that stings sharper than any misbegotten insect from the capitol's labs, and it hurts, it

– you by more than miles and is at this moment a helpless captive. Instead, you have to see how his voice is rough and scratchy like old brick, and how there are more silver hairs than brown in the stubble on his chin. If you go to a room and meet a man who can't walk anymore and sits in a wheelchair all day long, you can't think of how you too have lost your freedom, and how your mind is trapped just –

hurts like nothing you've ever felt before, oh god it's awful, please make it stop, if you

– like his body is. Instead, you have to notice how long his fingers are and the intricate things he can make with them, or the way his glasses keep falling down his short nose and he has to keep pushing them up. It's these things, the little things, that make up the good memories.

You don't believe me? You think these details too insignificant to be good? But you're wrong. You know you are. Look at all your best memories. Aren't they made of the littlest things – sea-green eyes, brown hair like silk, and soft skin translucent as the inner pink lining of a shell? It's the littlest things that matter. It's every second of every day. There are people who think in terms of years. They think of what will matter ten years from now, what happened ten years ago. But what happens is they end up missing all the good, all the little things, because they're so busy looking ahead or behind they can't –

love me at all, please, please, heal me, i'm broken, i'm wrecked, shattered, torn, wounded, just a bleeding mess of humanity, and the hands that can heal me are a million miles

– see what's happening right now. One day, maybe, they'll realize they're wrong. They'll look back on their lives and see all the little goods they missed and realize they'll never get them back. That's why it's so important for you to treasure every second and make them good. You only have so many, you know. And once they're gone, you never get them back.

All you can do is hope it's not too late.

FROM THE AUTHOR:

This is probably the last update I'll do for a few months. College app season is starting, and I'll be spending most of my time on those. In the meantime, let me shamelessly plug the handful of fanart I've done for the Hunger Games. They're not exactly masterpieces, but there's three Finnick/Annie pieces in there, so if you feel like it head on over to my gallery at deviantArt and check them out. (http:/ royalheather. deviantart .com).

Also, I'm a little reluctant to dive into Mockingjay. Finnick goes through a heck of a lot, and the prospect of emotionally investing myself (as I would have to to write a good fanfiction) in such a shattered character is a little daunting. So expect the next update sometime in January.

Thanks for the love,

RoyalHeather