I will scream, and scream, and scream until I run out of breath, and scream, and fall back on the dusty floor, struggling like a dying fish.
I will evaporate and drown; nothing saves me. I am a feather drifting without a place to land. I am what sad old men point at, only to whisper, “Fate.”
But I am not exactly fate. I am something much more careless. I knock my gigantic limbs across skyscrapers, slam into farmhouses and temples, uproot forests and streams. People scream in terror, their mouths agape at this titan of horror. Their lives flash before their eyes, but I do not stop. I cannot stop, as I see buildings turn to scraps, forests turn to fire, and my once-beloved playground turn to dust.
I am not exactly cursed, although one might say I was cursed since the very beginning. My head is a safehouse for several faces, all distraught and none friendly. My skin is callous as the desert, my eyes orbs of dark goo, my limbs strong enough to break a bridge in two, yet too weak to mend a dying bond.
No, I won’t say I’m cursed. Even if on the outside I am burdened with every anomaly, I’m not exactly useless. If I try to see through the storm that rages across my heart, I know that its mother is envy, its father a crippling self-worth. If I try to water my heart that is too fevered to flourish a flower, I might soon find an oasis. Maybe I’d suffer some mirages borne of indifference, but none can deny that deep down, beneath my scarred heart and traumatised skin, is an oasis of warmth and love. See, I’m not entirely cursed after all.
One day the skyscrapers will reach new heights, never to be knocked down by mindless limbs. Farmhouses and temples will raise a friendlier spirit, house a happier soul. The streams will flow long, and the forests will once again conquer the desert, bloom the flower of their own fate. And far in the future, or perhaps in the very next second, I shall reunite with my truest self.
The Inky Blue 