chocobunnydrops
"Steady," he said, holding her hand as she tiptoed her away across the log. The stream was far from the raging torrent it had been during the storms last month, but the memory alone was enough to make him clutch her little fingers tighter. "You're almost there."
and it's slow, and painful, and the end is so far beyond your fingertips you think the pads of your thumb may never brush it, but it's coming. Has anyone ever said recovery is easy? To recover is to rebuild with no materials, no blueprints, no idea. The architect is lost, so, so lost, but they are still an architect, and architects build.
like fans. okay so fans. mulan saves china because of a fan, okay. that is to this day the most badass thing i have ever seen anyone do with a fan. even though that fan will forever be ruined, she saved china and killed the leader of the huns by hitting him with a giant firecracker that set off a bunch of other firecrackers and effectively ensured that broken bits of his flaming body, if they weren't disintegrated, would rain down on a cheering China and Shang attempting to be smooth with Mulan.
the formula for life is simple, so very simple. carbon and oxygen and phosphorus, but most of all love. scientists spend their time crunching numbers and picking at amino acids, when in reality the secret to the warmth which radiates from our fingertips, the glowing eyes that reveal our innermost thoughts, is the very thing that cannot be created except from itself. love gives birth to love, yes, but oh it gives birth to so much else as well.
beauty is intriguing in the way a fire is. it draws you in, slowly, slowly, as to not let you know you are burned until it is too late, your skin has taken the ash black texture of a charred coal, your eyes are dazzled by the flickers of light, overwhelming, painful. you can no longer remember what is was like before you were so intrigued, and such is its beauty.
"this shit is bland," carlos dumps the dark liquid into the sink. "back in Montana, this is the stuff we'd give to the little kiddies. i dont know how you manage to survive so many nights on somethin' this weak." he pulled out a bag of suspiciously white, suspiciously powderlike "secret ingredients". "Put this in instead. It'll liven you right up."
sleep is a foreign sensation to me at this point. i have stayed up for some many nights perfecting this manuscript that my bed has become a mistress of the past, long forgotten as i slave over this single scrap of parchment that will hopefully hold my life stories. my eyes burn from looking at the computer screen, my shoulders ache from sitting up for so long, i stare at the blue hurtling across the surface to reach the finish line.
the statue is all I have left of her. It's cold, and lonely, and overall unimpressive as statues can go. It doesn't even look like her. It doesn't have her warmth, or her smile, or the gentle caress of her fingers through my hair during a particularly bad nightmare. god knows whoever chose it was off his rocker that day because that statue, without a doubt, bears no resemblance to the woman my mother used to be.
She always peels her oranges. It's the logical thing to do, since how are you going to eat an orange that has the peel on it? Preposterous, right? The peel's thick and rough and flaked with little bits of white membrane on the underside--definitely not fit for human consumption. But apparently not enough to stop a hungry 3 year old.
writing since 2015 · 9 entries · 9 days shown up
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the words Tressa reaches for
eyeslovechinafanbitswhitestatuewarmthfingersnightssuspiciouslysecretbeautyslowlypainfulsimple