The Bohemian Wreckage

Tick— tock— the clock coughs up feathers. Time bleeds backward, dripping from the Reaper’s sleeve. He comes in straight lines, a neat procession of silence. I answer with spirals, laughter folded like origami knives. Crows whisper inside their cages, “Choose, choose, choose—” but I never choose. I unchoose. I undo. Cards catch fire in my hands, spades melt into smoke, hearts beat until they burst. I toss the ashes into his hood. He smells like grave dirt and promises. “Am I yours?” I curtsy, skirts torn, crown tilted, a Queen of Nothing. He nods— certain. Always certain. So I kiss him. On the mouth, on the scythe, on the hollow where his eyes should be. And for once, Death forgets his step. The waltz collapses into madness, and I— I am free.

You know, this blogging thing might actually grow on me, I feel like I'm over-posting though - am I over-posting? I mean if it's a "digital diary", it should be fine right? How many times does a person write in a diary - What's deemed appropriate? Question of the day, although that doesn't mean I'll leave a question everyday, but: what's your altar?

They’ll say I was taken. They’ll whisper poor thing, all pale wrists and wilted petals, another flower plucked by the dark. But I wasn’t stolen. I walked. Barefoot across the river’s sigh, following the sound of my own heartbeat echoing down into shadow. He waited— a king of silence, eyes carved from midnight stone. But I did not bow. I smiled. Because I knew what they never could— that the sun had nothing left to offer me. Its warmth was too loud, its light too cruel. So I came to the dark, to the hush between heartbeats, to the place where even pain whispers softly. Hades didn’t cage me. He opened the door and said, “Are you sure?” And I said, “I’ve never been more.” Now the underworld blooms around my feet, obsidian roses, roots fed by choice, not chains. I was never lost. I was found. And I never looked back.

 I watch him— a storm caged in flesh, fury spun into brilliance. He limps, yet the world limps after him. He breaks, yet no one dares to call him broken. I envy the way he burns, untamed, unashamed— the venom in his smile, the blade in his tongue, the crown he carved from spite alone. I want that. To bleed and still command, to fracture and still be feared. To stand before the world, heart a trembling child, face a conquering king. Inside, he is glass. Outside, he is steel. And I— I ache to trade my trembling for his roar, my silence for his storm. If envy were a prayer, I would whisper his name to every god. If longing were a crown, I would wear his fire until it scorched me clean. To be Ivar— unpredictable, unshaken, unafraid. To bare my bones and dare the world to bite.

 You know, I can't stand thunder, I always think it'll be the second coming and end up being scared shitless.  Keep wondering, keep wandering....

 They say honor your mother and father -  but what of the child who honors everyone but herself? What of the daughter who kneels at every altar and still comes away unblessed? They say love is obedience, and silence respect. But I have learnered that love without freedom is just another form of fear, and silence is the easiest way to just disappear. So this is my sermon - not to the saints, or even the sinners, but to the girl who still shakes when she raises her voice. Speak. Even if your voice trembles, and let the heavens decide what to do with the sound. Keep wondering...keep wandering x

What do you write for your first blog?  Where are the words when you need them, huh?  What brought me here was a long-suffering, a desperation I suppose, as people we believe that eventually it'll all end - but what does that ending look like.  Is it...a fantasy?  A family? Perhaps it's just silence...an echo of water filling your ears as quite is encased throughout our being, no way out.  I'm in no way a saint, but how could our lives be such wreckage? Why is it that we live in the shambles of our ancestory mirrors?  Perhaps the mad aren't really mad.... perhaps, just perhaps The Hatter was the most sane being we'd ever come across in our existence. He was a china vase wrecked and shattered to the finest of porcelain pieces...but he still held it together. How is that? As Alice once said: "I knew who I was this morning, but I've changed a few times since then."  I keep changing.  The world keeps spinning, And Evenessence seems to be the only grou...