All your life, did you know /
you'd be picked like a rose.ᐣ
(Name) is full of contradictions. She is dreamy, yet decisive. Eccentric, yet charming. Ambitious, yet secretive. Confident, yet conflicted. Gentle, yet strong-willed. However, maybe the mo...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♡ ༻ ‿̩͙‿
They say that sometimes we slip into a comforting state of wistful nostalgia to let us distance ourselves from a past event. We prudently pamper an exact memory with a buoyant embrace of fragile sadness, shrouding its corners in the most exquisite framework, to let it go into an uncertain but necessary limbo.
It has always been a crucial step, to learn of the beautiful art of letting go. To actually be able to keep a memory without it hurting you is a fanciful pipe dream of rime. Memories are such fickle things. But despite that, they hurt you.
These memories can be simple, childlike even; the smell of sweet potatoes being fried in old oil, early morning prayers beside an older sister, looking for constellations in the midnight sky, a grandpa begrudgingly reading a storybook, tiny bells ringing, walking by the seashore with her father, raspberries growing by the bushes surrounding the church, an old vinyl playing on an even older phonograph, fishing boats glistening in the afternoon sun, a promise uttered in front of a nameless gravestone.
(Name) has demonstrated to have a very sharp grip on these sorts of recollections. For if there's anything childhood has taught her, it's that to prevent memories from slipping away, she must never loosen her grasp on them, no matter how much it hurts to awaken them every once in a while.
To her, memories are like birds sitting on a nearby branch. She hears them sing and chirp their symphonious choruses. She becomes isolated from the outside world by their enticing tunes and beautiful noises. They tread on her heels with their little feet, but the moment she tries to directly confront one, they fly off where she can't follow, leaving the peal of their flapping wings behind their wake.
Right now, (Name) feels a good kind of weird. She feels unplagued, as if the birdies didn't have the chance to enter the blimp to follow after her. She can see everything below her from where she's standing seated by the window. The lights from the city beneath glimmer like dreamy stars in the night sky.
She has seen this panorama before, countless times; the only thing is, she had nowhere near the sense of safety she felt at that moment.
It's not that she felt unsafe when flying with her broom, but, unless you were well-acquainted with the treacherous ways of riding one,-which she was- you would always feel a sense of dread sitting prettily in your stomach. After all, the only thing saving you from falling to your death was a meager stick on which you were seated. Many witches had met their fates by deciding to take risks.
Instead, here in the blimp she can put her two legs above a hard surface, and she can ogle the sights beneath her all she wants without the worry of leaning over a little too much. The only thing missing would be the wind kissing her face fiercely, as that was one of her favorite things in the world; but she can't ask for everything now, can she?
