04-03-2026, 01:58 PM
How long can I keep my eyes closed?
For as long as we need.
When can I open my eyes again?
The moment the fear abates.
It is hard to wake up, recently, and go along with the motions. Not that I am without things to do, but because I will watch it all happen again.
The spreading pyre of deathly fear. The love of the lost, still within reach. Grieving what we still have.
As I cradle my sleeping son, I already feel the ugly, metal pang in my throat that he is dead; I blink, and he is still here, blissfully innocent to that curse upon my fragile heart.
Maybe this dream wasn’t worth pursuing. Maybe I never deserved any of it. The heart burrowed in my chest is a charity. How long can I believe this delusion, that this gifted life has no expectations upon it?
Is it a delusion? Are we so fickle and transactional? Faith and promise go hand in hand, but do you believe in yourself?
Now, there is so much to do, but my cravings for normalcy have torn apart any image of myself where I am capable beyond the most base actions.
Only now, when he wakes up next to me, when he smiles, I feel that indignant relief; for a night, I pretend, I reflect, I show what he wishes to see in me.
The ugly truth is that I am a mirror, just as much as I am plagued by the sight of one. It drains me. It kills me.
He knows the name. He knows our name. What we look like. What is left. But does he know, fully? Does he understand?
However long am I to be confined in this prison of my own design, the bars shaped with family, love, and care, the warden standing with my flesh and blood, a wish I don’t remember making?
Even now, as I think on what it is I am to do next, I am reminded of the idea that I must break free from this cage. Yet, it would leave lasting wounds on everyone.
Rearing its ugly head, the monster that I am only yearns to make this ache in my heart stop, so that I may finally be a person, more than a hollow sound and a vapid name.
The cursed blade of faith turned against us, and skewered us with that curse so deep. Our sight, our eyes, have not quite recovered. Will they?
Yearning for a fix, a panacea, to all of my woes led me to a place of nothing but untold agonies, where even my most beloved followed me into that Hel.
Esshar’s relics left behind will make a difference. This, I know. Yet I find it so painfully ironic that I have found this mirror, beckoning me with sweet visions of what was, is, and will be.
The mirror shows her, as she once was, on some days, like I’m meant to be her; then, it shows my friends, corroded by their sins. It never shows myself. I don’t know what I am supposed to look like.
We have eyes to peer into this Truth. We refuse to use them, for the gaze will permeate more than just the mirror. It will pierce us.
I hide my body away from everyone. My neck. My hands. The truth of what lays behind my eyes. The gloves fit me. The suit works perfectly. I only wish I had no face.
We cannot let them know how weak this body is. They cannot see where our heart rests. Only two have seen that birthmark, and none other should.
Always, I have questions, and always, I get no response. Where did my Aether come from? Why can’t I remember gathering the relics? Why did I wake up in Arcadia bloodied?
Maddening. Asking these questions is maddening. Why is she so defensive over me? Why are my eyes hers so exactly? I keep screaming these questions until my throat is raw, and my only answer is my muteness.
We know these answers already. What is present, however, is the unwillingness to confront this truth. We shut our eyes to avoid that fear.
How am I supposed to keep myself afloat when every action I’ve taken has only proven her right? How long will I live after everything? How long does the candlewick last?
Even now, when I should have everything, even when wars are being waged on behalf of the cause I should worry for, my questions and ambitions are so selfish.
Really, it feels like an indicator of how truly insane I am, for me to be so manic about an attained normalcy that I believe everything is fine.
A condemnation of the self, ringing like the bells of clergy,
as the pieces fall into place for a transformation
that most may envy, but few will mirror.
We will see what is in store for us.
We will sacrifice all that we have,
and become something greater.
For as long as we need.
When can I open my eyes again?
The moment the fear abates.
It is hard to wake up, recently, and go along with the motions. Not that I am without things to do, but because I will watch it all happen again.
The spreading pyre of deathly fear. The love of the lost, still within reach. Grieving what we still have.
As I cradle my sleeping son, I already feel the ugly, metal pang in my throat that he is dead; I blink, and he is still here, blissfully innocent to that curse upon my fragile heart.
Maybe this dream wasn’t worth pursuing. Maybe I never deserved any of it. The heart burrowed in my chest is a charity. How long can I believe this delusion, that this gifted life has no expectations upon it?
Is it a delusion? Are we so fickle and transactional? Faith and promise go hand in hand, but do you believe in yourself?
Now, there is so much to do, but my cravings for normalcy have torn apart any image of myself where I am capable beyond the most base actions.
Only now, when he wakes up next to me, when he smiles, I feel that indignant relief; for a night, I pretend, I reflect, I show what he wishes to see in me.
The ugly truth is that I am a mirror, just as much as I am plagued by the sight of one. It drains me. It kills me.
He knows the name. He knows our name. What we look like. What is left. But does he know, fully? Does he understand?
However long am I to be confined in this prison of my own design, the bars shaped with family, love, and care, the warden standing with my flesh and blood, a wish I don’t remember making?
Even now, as I think on what it is I am to do next, I am reminded of the idea that I must break free from this cage. Yet, it would leave lasting wounds on everyone.
Rearing its ugly head, the monster that I am only yearns to make this ache in my heart stop, so that I may finally be a person, more than a hollow sound and a vapid name.
The cursed blade of faith turned against us, and skewered us with that curse so deep. Our sight, our eyes, have not quite recovered. Will they?
Yearning for a fix, a panacea, to all of my woes led me to a place of nothing but untold agonies, where even my most beloved followed me into that Hel.
Esshar’s relics left behind will make a difference. This, I know. Yet I find it so painfully ironic that I have found this mirror, beckoning me with sweet visions of what was, is, and will be.
The mirror shows her, as she once was, on some days, like I’m meant to be her; then, it shows my friends, corroded by their sins. It never shows myself. I don’t know what I am supposed to look like.
We have eyes to peer into this Truth. We refuse to use them, for the gaze will permeate more than just the mirror. It will pierce us.
I hide my body away from everyone. My neck. My hands. The truth of what lays behind my eyes. The gloves fit me. The suit works perfectly. I only wish I had no face.
We cannot let them know how weak this body is. They cannot see where our heart rests. Only two have seen that birthmark, and none other should.
Always, I have questions, and always, I get no response. Where did my Aether come from? Why can’t I remember gathering the relics? Why did I wake up in Arcadia bloodied?
Maddening. Asking these questions is maddening. Why is she so defensive over me? Why are my eyes hers so exactly? I keep screaming these questions until my throat is raw, and my only answer is my muteness.
We know these answers already. What is present, however, is the unwillingness to confront this truth. We shut our eyes to avoid that fear.
How am I supposed to keep myself afloat when every action I’ve taken has only proven her right? How long will I live after everything? How long does the candlewick last?
Even now, when I should have everything, even when wars are being waged on behalf of the cause I should worry for, my questions and ambitions are so selfish.
Really, it feels like an indicator of how truly insane I am, for me to be so manic about an attained normalcy that I believe everything is fine.
A condemnation of the self, ringing like the bells of clergy,
as the pieces fall into place for a transformation
that most may envy, but few will mirror.
We will see what is in store for us.
We will sacrifice all that we have,
and become something greater.