Tired of all of this.
So very tired.
But it seems that I cannot even make sense of what it is I am tired of. I have an amazing life—a pair of amazing, magnificent friends by the names of Fatum and Sun-Jung that I adore and love; a long distance gang of family that will withstand the test of time; a brother by the name of Ian Taylor that I would cheerily dedicate my life to spending every second with if I could; and a boyfriend that I cherish and would die for, and will live for. And let’s not forget the amazingly intelligent and creative mind I have, my almost unending kindness and ever-growing wisdom, the travels I take with my family, the amazing blog I do my best to post on as often as I can, the beauty of my appearance, the glory of my room, and the amount of books I own. I am so unbelievably lucky.
And yet I take what I am lucky to have and change it into a curse.
The love I call a weight, something I can bend and break beneath. The glory of my Figments, people within my mind that speak with me and share the same youthful bitterness, the same cynicism towards life that I was given so very early on—they themselves are nothing more than vestiges of the Madness that dwells in the Prison Floor of the Journey. The Journey to my inner strength I call Alakina, who will take over for me if my own will should break and shatter. Raphael, though he is strong and wise and kind almost to a fault, is not as strong as she. The Figments and I are one and the same, each one different aspects of me. The aspects of me blend and mix, each one of them with a past black as night, and each one of them with the same deep-set faith that one day, in some distant place and time, there will be rest.
There will be rest.
Sometime, far from now, in the distant future and beyond my lifetime, these lost and drifting souls, these Figments of imagination and facets of reality, will be able to grind to a halt, no longer drowning within the weight of eternity. I feel the same weight, for within me runs the shevre, the Blood of Figments. I am daughter of Alakina and Raphael, daughter of an African Queen and an English nobleman. Within me is time and within me is light, but within me is the severe agony and hatred of all things. And it is a hatred I cannot shake, something I cannot halt, even though I know it to be wrong, so very wrong.
I feel it boil within my blood.
I feel it sear my skin.
I feel it set alight my eyes with flame.
I feel it.
It is within me and it is everywhere, a single word—hate hate hate hate hate hate hate.
A feeling I claim to be incapable of.
But perhaps this feeling isn’t hate….
Perhaps it isn’t the flames and rage I think it is….
Perhaps all it is is some dark coldness.
Some darkened, blackened, burnt cold.
But then the vengeful cry rises up within me once more, a flood of anger and hate, only to be drowned once again in tears.
A flurry of emotion, one that is only halted again by a faint smile.
I know I’m not well.
I know that I’m likely to only get worse, my feelings deteriorate, until there can be nothing left but something known as strength. Something faulted and false, but also something I can stand on. Something REAL. Something real in a world of falseness. I’m very close to standing on nothing but strength, as the stones of love, faith, hope, belief, and friendship are crumbling beneath me, leaving in their wake bitterness.