There are no words today that I have not said before, and this kills me a little every day. The battle in your mind, it leaves casualties. Ironically, not holograms of seasons past but real, actual people, and circumstances, and unborn universes. You have no idea how real an unborn universe is. And what happens when things don't happen because you didn't have the balls.
My name is X. They did not call me this for nothing. My years here have been normal, humdrum, unremarkable, the stuff of personal blogs and status updates that make your eyes bleed, or freeze, choose your metaphor, we're all adults here. And yet there is this: the thing that makes us the same. Inaction.
Flowers, now, for fellow soldiers. There is no dignity in thought. Certain triggers spur us unlike anything else, and each motivation is as individual as the marks on our skin. Positivity sounds fake to me, at least at this point, and despondency accomplishes nothing but that heart-wrenching muddle of forgotten plans and unspoken hurts.
And so now there is nothing left but the blinding, all-consuming, all-destroying storm of anger. Come in, old friend, we have centuries to talk about. It has been a while.
