I should've done something about it. I should've torn the continent apart looking
for the one who did it. I should've taken a finger, an arm, a head for what he did.
Where's that lust for revenge that spawns from so deep from the heart that it becomes pure
agony when left unresolved? Foster, Ferris, Kamille, Athelaide, Stella; I'd seen it festering in
their yearning eyes at points across the years, heard it send a quiver of unrest through their
words. I'd learned to let its contagious zeal drive my heart. Why is the well now dry of that
one ambrosia I'd found sweeter than anything?
Revenge.
It's one of the main tenets. It resonated so well with me in my prime. I was frothing at the
mouth like a rabid dog to see the luminescent stars of Leonaus blotted out after what was
done in their names, after I saw what taint the stars' fervor has on one's mind. So where is
that craving now?
I don't even know the name of his killer.
Why did he do it? Is he still alive? Does he smile often? Fuck if I know, I wasn't paying attention.
Is it because they're all gone that I haven't mustered that desire? After all, who is left to scold
me for not hunting him like a prized boar? Who is left to proselytize me with that ardor for
retribution? Who is left to turn drunken keening into words of war and retaliation?
No one. They're all dead as well, or at least dead to the world.
I could feel the passion draining from me day by day. Every ounce of bad news from the north
filled a bucket tied around my neck, a deadweight that made it harder to raise my blade on
behalf of my principles. But that one drop of news from the east about my dearest Artyom?
...
It's torture to grow old without those who were supposed to outlive you, watching a world
whose suns only seem to set blur past from behind a windowpane. I used to love mornings,
but now I see them for their despicable truth: they're a promise that there's another day to
get through, a day that I won't be able to recognize as distinct from the others after a week.
Days pass like years, and years are remembered as little more than days.
And none of them will be spent on revenge.
Instead I'll try to tell myself that I'm glad you got away. That you won't have to grow old
and know what it feels like to reflect on your life, only to realize that everything worthwhile
is in the past, that you have nothing in your future anymore. I'll tell myself I'm glad that you
won't know what it's like to feel rigor mortis take hold of your soul decades before it does your body.
Anyways, happy 50th to me.
So many left to go.
for the one who did it. I should've taken a finger, an arm, a head for what he did.
Where's that lust for revenge that spawns from so deep from the heart that it becomes pure
agony when left unresolved? Foster, Ferris, Kamille, Athelaide, Stella; I'd seen it festering in
their yearning eyes at points across the years, heard it send a quiver of unrest through their
words. I'd learned to let its contagious zeal drive my heart. Why is the well now dry of that
one ambrosia I'd found sweeter than anything?
Revenge.
It's one of the main tenets. It resonated so well with me in my prime. I was frothing at the
mouth like a rabid dog to see the luminescent stars of Leonaus blotted out after what was
done in their names, after I saw what taint the stars' fervor has on one's mind. So where is
that craving now?
I don't even know the name of his killer.
Why did he do it? Is he still alive? Does he smile often? Fuck if I know, I wasn't paying attention.
Is it because they're all gone that I haven't mustered that desire? After all, who is left to scold
me for not hunting him like a prized boar? Who is left to proselytize me with that ardor for
retribution? Who is left to turn drunken keening into words of war and retaliation?
No one. They're all dead as well, or at least dead to the world.
I could feel the passion draining from me day by day. Every ounce of bad news from the north
filled a bucket tied around my neck, a deadweight that made it harder to raise my blade on
behalf of my principles. But that one drop of news from the east about my dearest Artyom?
...
It's torture to grow old without those who were supposed to outlive you, watching a world
whose suns only seem to set blur past from behind a windowpane. I used to love mornings,
but now I see them for their despicable truth: they're a promise that there's another day to
get through, a day that I won't be able to recognize as distinct from the others after a week.
Days pass like years, and years are remembered as little more than days.
And none of them will be spent on revenge.
Instead I'll try to tell myself that I'm glad you got away. That you won't have to grow old
and know what it feels like to reflect on your life, only to realize that everything worthwhile
is in the past, that you have nothing in your future anymore. I'll tell myself I'm glad that you
won't know what it's like to feel rigor mortis take hold of your soul decades before it does your body.
Anyways, happy 50th to me.
So many left to go.