The Warp of Time
"Speak, and I will listen."
Entries
11th Sun's Dawn
There are moments in which I must contend with the frightful creature that lives in my chest; this wounded part of me that flutters itself into panicked throes at the first sight of danger. It is a cruel thing, though it does not mean to be, and I try to treat it tenderly, but it does not rise to meet me.
What does it mean, I wonder? I find it all tends to trickle down into time. If only I had more of it.
If only my words made sense. If only I could take that wild, fluttering thing, and twist it into a shape that others would like; it is not so much that the words do not come. I find the substance in it lacking.
What do I want to say? What little etchings would I like to leave behind? The Wheel keeps turning, whether I am ready for it or not. I am not getting any younger.
How would I say it? Is it worth breathing life into? Whatever I have to say, others exist who may say it better. I was not born with the talent to tell stories; neither were they - they worked for it. And yet it all seems to come easier to them, and I am left here, silently resentful - awestruck by their expert weavings.
But then again, my darling - when is the last time I've really tried?