wiltedforgetmenots

[wiltedforgetmenots]

I looked like Aziraphale today 🤎📖🪽

[wiltedforgetmenots]

"I would never feel sad again if I had a knitted frog."

Then there it was—my mother’s love, in the shape of a soft, green creature.

[wiltedforgetmenots]

[wiltedforgetmenots]

Sometimes, I wish I could turn into stone. Would I find peace then? Would my heart finally grow still if it were made of stone? Or would the wretched thing still keep beating? How I hate the sound of it.

Or if I were just a bird—would I gain the freedom I've always dreamed of? Would I be happy? Does happiness even mean anything to a bird?

If I were a bear, would I be strong enough to keep living? Would I be content just wandering through the forest, listening to the sound of the river? Or would I still dream of another existence when I looked at the moon?

I gaze at the horizon when there’s mist in the air. It looks so peaceful. For a split second, I forget my existence. I want to walk into the mist and stay there—to walk into nothingness, to become nothing.

Mountaintops, covered in snow and trees—oh, how I adore them: the snow, the trees. I wish to be with them. I wish to be them. What a simple existence—serene. Trees, unchanging; snow, cold, just water—a matter ever-changing, yet still the same.

I know it doesn’t matter as long as I have this soul of mine. I know she is the one who yearns. My heart and brain are nothing but pieces of flesh and blood. It is the ghost within me that keeps the fire burning.

My dear soul: calm as a stone, free as a bird, strong as a bear, cold as snow, lonely as a tree. You don’t belong here, dear soul. My body is rotting around you, and you know it. You keep my heart beating because you’re not ready to give up. And still, you make my mind wander. You know we do not belong here. But no—not giving up yet.

You’re like a mother bird, always hatching eggs filled with sickly little birds. You call them hope. But do you know what I do with them? I learned it from my father, you see. When he found a bird with a broken wing, he snapped its neck and fed it to the cat. I do the same. I feed the beast within me with those frail, sickly attempts called hope.

Isn’t it enough, my dear soul? Aren’t you tired of existing? I will not let even a single one of those hatchlings become a phoenix. I refuse to let myself burn over and over again. Once I burn, I will be nothing but ashes—nothing more, no rebirth.