[redzaru]

---

I don't write much anymore.
I did when I was younger.

I was more juvenile. I recounted every small thing detail. 

I wrote of the people I met. That became my friends companions.
I wrote of the small things. The strange lupin I saw one day. The way the river sparkled once.

My parents. 

Even back then I had noticed the passive admonishment of my Father.
The unhappy smile my Mother would bear for me Him.



I used to be young. Some Many say that I still am.
I used to be younger.
I used to live as a human would. I would laugh. I would cry. I would antagonize for no reason.
I would live.

But such was unbecoming of my heritage.
That is what Father would say to me. His words were as firm as his hand.
I hated him. And yet I could not escape his design.

And so I donned his masks.

His blows were softened by my Mother's buxom.
Her warm embrace as I wept quiet enough to hide from Him.
She would lie to me. Tell me it was alright.

Mother was my lighthouse. A beacon that kept me from the rocky shore.
One day that beacon was extinguished. I was crushed.

I lost my way to the harbor.
And fell into my Forebear's Design.



A single fragment of my Self was lost when I put down my tool.
"There is no point in it," I remember my Father telling me.
I'd do better learning. Following after Their footfalls.

I learned of Nemea. I learned Wylden.
I learned the passive disinterest that my people wear like a tight shirt.
I learned the rituals. They are now as breathing is.
I forgot how to be Human. I learned how to be Faeborne.

I've lost many fragments following my Forbear's Design.

The parts that made me who I was have been replaced.

I splintered my Self to fit the mold.

I became a collection of shards and a wearer of masks.

I've lost my old Self.

And yet, I persist.

[redzaru]

---

I have not written in years. Father imprinted upon me a lack of importance for it.
And yet, when I pick up my utensil the singular urge is to write of my Self.
That is what a journal is for, after all.

This is a reclamation. He is gone. I do not need to bear the weight of His conditioning.

I only hope to find my tired penmanship cathartic.

---

I never asked for much.
I asked to live. To breathe. To be.

To be fed until I could feed myself.
To be carried until I could carry myself.
To be held until—

I do not want to hold someone myself. To burden another with my care. Make them worry over me.
I have sabotaged myself in spite of this.

A close friend. I kissed him.
I do not know why or for what reason. I ache day and night over my thoughts.

There is an ocean inside of me. One that churns.
One that bubbles and crashes, thrashing around the small vessel in which I sail.
Emotions. They are not foreign to me. I know them quite well.

But they are strong. Stronger than I can hope to ascribe adjectives to.
I learned how to control them. Control them. Of course I did, He taught me.

The ship takes on water as it is rocked and tossed by the waves.
Emotions reach a peak. The pressure builds. The one that floods inside might not be the one that rocked the boat.
But it happens all the same.

Stress. Sorrow. Disgust and hate. My favorite to masque behind innocent indifference.
There was a crack in the hull—a crack in the mask—that led to this.
He was leaving and I yearned still for company.

I only wish that he yearns as I do.
I wish that he may see past my actions. Come to understand the turmoil I carry inside.

I do not want to burden the ones I care about.
My Nemal nui—My sister.
My friends. him.

How I wish I could dissolve into another Self. I would not have to bear the shame.
I was overcome and irrational.
And yet, that night I slept with a heart that fluttered faster than my wings ever could.

The ocean is loud tonight. My head and heart are heavy. I am upset.
I managed to tell this to my companions. I managed to be honest about a single feeling.
I managed to be genuine. I fear, however, that I may worry them.

They do not know what eats at me. Much as I know little more.

I wish for simplicity. I wish to live as a human does.
To not wear a mask. To not drown or sink in this creaking vessel.

But the bow is leaking. I may very well sink.

I was taught to control my emotions.

The Control is slipping between my fingers.

And yet, I persist.