#ooc: dear anon i have. so much ro say. i am insane.

[quackity1999]

the towering un-thing is pleased! it hums, thrills at your answer; isn't it so... suffocating, the rat race? to be so unknown after everything, despite your blood sweat and tears? Matthew 7:26-27, big Q. do you have a bible up there, in the heart of the city of sin? wouldn't that be so funny? something to say about that, i'm sure. so! enough of the terrors, of the fears, of the figurative trunkless legs in the middle of sand as the only testimony of whatever-had-stood-there ("look at my works, ye mighty, and despair." maybe one day you're gonna be the one to say it, too.) -so, trod past the snow, the sand, the ash, all that which crushes your ribs, and find yourself in a warm room. and you can sit down wherever. and i'll ask you again, one last time, before you can go back to your presidential duties (such a large to-do list!). think about the time you were the happiest. tell me, whisper to me, just between the two of us: the warmest memories you come back in the coldest days, when it's all ice and frostbite. the campfire you warm yourself with. the climb's taut rope. the things that never fail to make you smile and think maybe for all the shit the world is it's not so bad because of this. is it a person, a time, a place, a nation? take your time- no, you won't sleep through your alarm, don't worry!

ironically; in a strange twist of fate— i'm meant to have friends. it's not about lovers. this story does not end in a wedding, or a fling, or a ring that turns into a weapon. this story ends in friendship.

it's about learning lessons that were meant for everyone else but yourself. it's about brushing the sand and snow and blood and all that other shit away and letting people see you for more than your body. seeing you for your mind; what it owns and loves and wants and needs, what it cherishes and what it doesn't. it's about resting. it's about starting over and turning pages that aren't filed away in a box marked "paperwork".

it's about shedding your skin and growing it back softer this time. you can let it go. you can let go of your bitter hackles and your armor and your shiny sharp teeth that have tasted a little too much blood. you deserve hands in your wings. a touch that won't scare, a touch that doesn't hurt or use you. and in turn, your feathers melt from harsh steel into a softness you've not recognised as your own in years.

it's still yours.

doesn't matter how many big words you use to pretend it isn't.

and i haven't learned it yet. but— love won't get you anywhere. perhaps a friend knows the better direction through a storm. they'll always find the headlights; they've got the map of your life in their hands.

you should take the risk and let them hold onto it for a while.