Delusion in Monochrome

[Nullia]

My family has a habit.

Over the years, I have begun to recognize this.

There is, for all of my line, but one exquisite truth;

It ends in one of two places.

A bed,

or a grave.

Sickly,

or dead.

I am what one would call, "insane".
By the circumstances of my life has my mind been broken.
Any purpose I carried forgotten, any beliefs I had discarded.
There was, in reply to my plea, only red. Blood, death, the dissolution of all that I am.
Of all that I have ever strove to be.

I make tea with killers, I smile at their delusions and spin my pen while I get them to do what I want.
Falke, nice Falke, polite little, perfect little Falke.
I hold close to my chest the desire to burn it all down. Because I am better.
No. I am no better.
But I must be.

My mother died a pitiable death, and my father I never knew.
My choice lies between two;
die in my sleep in the midst of false memories when my mind simply refuses to continue,
or die in an unmarked grave.
This is where my ideals will leave me.
I always knew it was, but
                                       I simply
                                                          thought
                                                                                    I was stronger.

I was not. I was weak, weaker than those I scorn.

If this hollow body of mine may only perform one thing more,
let it be the defiance of fate.
That which the perfect Falke was known for.
A child far removed from this broken doll.



I will not die in silence like the rest of my lineage.

This do I promise to you,


Father.

[Nullia]

Reality has a habit.

All around me do bodies fall.
People I knew, now heads on sticks and corpses in dirt.
I stand,
my strings long snapped,
in an ocean of their blood.
What could I have done if I was strong enough?

If my body was not so frail, if my height of power was not so easily reached—
—could I really have taken another step, to save them all?

I hold your necklace in my hand,
I see your scarf,
I hold your letter,
and I cling to your stupid little book.
What a shitty family I have found.
The people I care for,
long fallen dead.

I look her in the eyes, my own flesh and blood—
—are you all going to leave me as well?

A thousand oaths to protect, sworn, upheld to the grave.
Vows to protect the fragile little citizens of the land they love so much,
they would die for it.
Every day, people look to me, and they say;
"Don't worry Falke."
"I'll protect you."

Such an innocent light in their eyes—
—as I watch them march off to die.

These, fragile limbs of mine. This paper-thin body, this, incapability.

You couldn't take that step.

I refuse.

They will die as well.
I refuse.
After all these years, there still isn't a single thing you can do to save them.
I refuse.
Reality has a habit.

And I refuse bend my knee.

If this frail little body of mine cannot handle what I must do,
then I will approach the simplest answer, what has always laid before me.

Reality stands in my way.
I cannot save everyone,
I cannot save them.
This land is filled with savages and zealots,
and none will listen to me.
The reality of the world is,
there isn't a single thing I can do to change it.

Reality is a set of rules and obstructions that define what it is I can and cannot do.
It is an absolute law that governs my life, and has presented me with trials far beyond this pitiful body.




Reality is an obstacle.

I will simply break it.