Cordelia’s carriage ride to Dulwich was quiet. She was left alone with her thoughts for far too long, and she had so many questions that were still unanswered.

Was Mr. Bellingham’s death connected to Mr. Notley’s? Why did Mr. Bellingham have that peculiar table and candles, and why did Cordelia have a memory of it? And could they trust anything Mrs. Bellingham had to say?

By the time Cordelia was dropped off at the Yellowwood Inn, she was drained, despite it only being early evening. Still, she entered in search of Blackburn.

The inn was considerably less crowded than it had been the last evening, and for that Cordelia was grateful. It also allowed her to spot her cane-wielding companion quite quickly. He was jovially playing cards in the corner with a round-bellied man.

As she approached, she heard the round man make a rather rude comment that she desperately hoped had not been addressing her, and Blackburn all but agreed, knocking cups with his new friend. The both of them laughed, and the round man took a large swig of his drink.

She met Blackburn’s turquoise eyes with a glare. He sent her a letter that someone was dead and he was drinking and playing cards? He seemed to sense none of her irritation, for his eyes twinkled at her, and a smile spread across his face.

“Have you come to play?” he drawled.

Disgusted, she demanded, “Get up.”

Blackburn’s round friend gave the both of them a rather incredulous (and suggestive) look as Cordelia about nearly dragged Blackburn away from the table, then out of the inn altogether. It was best to avoid making a scene, and Cordelia was fuming.

Blackburn’s hat was missing, revealing a mess of dark hair, and his clothes reeked of alcohol. She was beginning to suspect his note was a ruse to get her to return.

“Are you out of your mind? Did you do nothing while I was in Rotherhithe?” she hissed.

He leaned towards her, his demeanor suddenly normal, completely opposite from the drunken flop he’d been inside. His eyes were clear, if amused. “I’ll explain in a moment,” he said quietly.

Cordelia leaned away from his closeness, but she didn’t notice any alcohol on his breath. And there should have been. Was he not drunk?

Confused, Cordelia said, “You’d best.”

Blackburn chuckled. “Wait here. I must finish my act.” He jogged back to the inn’s front door, then abruptly threw himself against it, clumsily falling inside.

Cordelia ran to the nearest window to peer inside.

From her view, she saw Blackburn’s back, his hands waving at the round man, who got up from his seat, nearly knocking over his table in the process. Blackburn continued his gesticulations, pointing towards the door a couple of times, and the man grinned and nodded, stumbling closer to Blackburn to give him a sloppy embrace.

After peeling himself out of the round man’s arms, Blackburn headed out the door. Still both peeved and thoroughly confused, Cordelia marched back to meet him.

“Mr. Blackburn, is Mr. Bellingham found or not?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Blackburn placed his hat on his head, then spun his cane in his hand, as if reacquainting himself with them. Then, he started briskly forward, saying over his shoulder, “He is found. Now, keep up. I stalled as long as I could, but we don’t have long.”

Cordelia huffed. “Was that a farce? In the inn? Who is he?” Irritation seeped into her voice, and she didn’t bother to hide it.

“I needed a place to hide Mr. Bellingham, so I invited Owen for a drink. He is the owner of a small cottage in the woods.”

Cordelia shook her head, still not understanding. “You’re hiding Mr. Bellingham in a man’s house without his knowledge?”

“Not for long. I needed a place nearby, and I needed him to not ask any questions.” Blackburn smiled wryly. “And I don’t suppose he’ll be making it home very quickly in his state, nor be able to form very coherent questions.”

“That’s insane!” exclaimed Cordelia, shocked. “Luring a man out of his own home!”

Blackburn’s eyebrows pulled together. “I couldn’t be forthright with the man; he would clearly think I was insane—”

“You are insane!”

“—but I needed to ask him some questions as well, so that worked out rather swimmingly.”

“You are hiding a dead body in an innocent man’s house,” Cordelia stated firmly, too astounded to even yell.

“Who said he was dead?” Blackburn said with a lift of his brow. Cordelia cocked her head at him. “Now, we’re just about to it.”

They were approaching a small cottage, surrounded by trees but not too obscured. To Cordelia, it was shockingly small, even for one man; how could one live in such tight quarters? It looked to be the size of just one room.

Blackburn had approached the cottage and was about to open the door, but Cordelia stopped some feet behind him, hesitant.

“He is like me. How.” She would not enter until she understood. Was Mr. Bellingham alive? Was he dead?

Blackburn stopped and met her eyes. “I will not again try to convince you of what I believe about you, Cordelia, but Mr. Bellingham is not alive. Nor is he fully dead. He is not exactly like you, but I believe you two are similar.”

Cordelia took a shaky breath, frozen and unable to respond.

“I think you should see him yourself,” Blackburn said, turning back to the door.

She wondered if the answers she sought were inside this tiny cottage. Answers about Mr. Bellingham, surely, but answers about herself? There was only one thing she could do.

“Show him to me,” she breathed.

--

Previous chapter: https://theprose.com/post/322654/10-arrival-of-a-courier

Next chapter: https://theprose.com/post/325205/12-planting-a-sapling

No, I am not afraid.

I am a woman - I have seen it all.

No, I am not exhausted.

I am a woman - I carry the burden of the world on my shoulders.

No, I am not weak.

I am a woman - every bone in my body, every thought of my mind, every hope of my heart, is the epitomy of strength.

I am a warrior - I carry this power in my blood.

And no, I am not nothing.

I am a woman - I create life itself.

The green glow took over the dim room in which Abbott stood, his eyes filling with emerald light as he collapsed onto the floor. All of his limbs went rigid as a deep voice filled the room.

“The… the object…”

Abbott’s body shook as he struggled to force the words out, but they seemed to be stuck in his throat. He was wavering in and out of consciousness as images flooded vision… a tree which towered over the rest in its vicinity, its branches sprawling in the sky as if they could touch the clouds themselves.

“The object… you seek… lies beneath… the corpse… of the old oak…”

From the floor, Abbott took a deep, ragged breath, signaling to the man in the corner that the vision was over. The man sighed, stepping out of the shadows, and flipped his notepad shut with a ‘click’.

“Is that all?”

Abbott looked up miserably from the ground. Shaking, he inhaled again and rasped, “Y-yes. I’m sorry.”

The man snarled. “You better be. That family came in expecting you to tell them how to save their crops from blight, and you just rattled off some nonsense about something buried under a damn tree! If you keep mixing up visions like this, word is going to get around, and families are going to stop coming to the Empyrium to solve their problems. Without prophecies, there’s no business. Without business, I’m out of a job. Without my job, your sorry ass is going on the street where it belongs- where it should have been left sixteen years ago. So get your shit together, or you’re going to regret it!”

The man turned and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Abbott groaned and laid back down on the ground, massaging his aching temples. Lately, every vision had been taking more out of him, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could do this. But he had no choice. Alastair O’Leary had taken him in after he was left on the Empyrium’s doorstep. Even though O’Leary practically exploited Abbott’s abilities and used him for money, the Empyrium was as close to home as Abbott had ever had.

Without it, he was nothing.

He stretched his weak arms and sat up. Holding onto the corner of his bed, he hoisted himself onto wobbly legs and gazed around his small quarters, trying as he often did to make light of his situation. A lopsided blue chair sat in the corner of his room. Even though it had lost most of the stuffing long ago, it was comfortable, and it served as a good companion to him when he was recovering from the day’s visions. His bed stood next to the chair, chained to the wall for some convoluted reason of O’Leary’s. It was little more than a straw mattress on a poorly constructed wooden frame, but Abbott’s aching body greatly appreciated something to lie on every night. It wasn’t much, as he told himself daily, but it was home.

He didn’t often leave his room, except to use the toilet, which Alastair had so graciously provided in a closet in the hall. Occasionally, the older man would barge into Abbott’s room and demand assistance in the store. Abbott would put on his mask of happiness and saunter out to help, but he was never allowed to directly interact with the customers.

Sometimes he would get stuck cleaning up displays after customers messed them up. It pained him to think of the time one bratty child smashed all of the transforming potions on the ground and turned into about seventeen different animals simultaneously. Abbott had been stuck scrubbing the sticky combination of potions and animal shit off the ground for hours while Alastair perched on his stool, watching him work with a wary eye and calling out criticizing comments. When it was finally over, the man had thrown Abbott back in his room with nothing more than a sideways glance.

Abbott knew O’Leary meant well; at least, that was what he told himself. Deep down, though, he questioned the man’s true motives every time O’Leary would beat him with a broom for not speaking prophecies clearly enough or simply being a waste of space. But no matter how much Abbott argued with himself, he always circled back to the same thought: Alastair O’Leary was a troubled man, and nothing Abbott could do would help him. Abbott had decided long ago to simply keep his head down and behave, waiting for the day the old man finally kicked the bucket.

He didn’t think that would be happening anytime soon, however. While the man was old, likely in his sixties or so, he was stubborn beyond belief and still going strong, despite his raging alcoholism. He had surely gone straight back to his workspace for a drink or two after delivering the failure of a prophecy to the family that came in. Perhaps, Abbott thought, now was a safe time to stretch his legs.

He nudged the door open a crack and peered out with one solemn eye, staring down the hall. Barely visible at the end of the dark corridor was the door to his master’s quarters. O’Leary had explicitly stated long ago that his room was not to be messed with, and if he caught Abbott going anywhere near it, there would be hell to pay. Abbott had never paid any attention to the room before then, but since then, he had become increasingly curious about just what lay behind the door. He knew better than to invoke the wrath of O’Leary, though, and instead kept as far away from it as possible.

Seeing a small stream of light trickling in from behind the door at the end of the hall, Abbott decided O’Leary was busy. He slowly opened the door, taking care not to let it squeak. He slipped out on light feet and made his way towards the door to the shoppe.

He pushed it open, relishing in the natural daylight that flooded in from the building’s many windows. On the off chance he was allowed in the shoppe when customers were around, he was forbidden from going within five paces of them, resigned to lurking in the shadows and straightening the displays. Alastair had some irrational fear that the customers would make the connection between where the prophecies came from and this dirty, scrawny boy. If the customers found out I’m using a child for profit, O’Leary often said, then they would not come back. It would be bad for business, wouldn’t it? Whenever Abbott heard this spiel, he would nod and whisper, Yes, Master, returning to his work. Alastair would smirk, seemingly satisfied, until he would go off on this rant again if Abbott so much as breathed in a customer’s direction.

Looking around the shoppe, Abbott noticed many items that had not been out for sale the last time. Small animals in cages sat in the window, squeaking pitifully and scratching to be let out. The southern wall was covered in pastel emissions of light from small orbs floating in jars. A new display labeled “Love Potions” caught Abbott’s eye and he moved in to take a closer look at the floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with bottles of all shapes and sizes. Each was filled with a thick liquid, contributing to a mosaic of potions in varying shades of red and pink. Abbott took a step around a large table that had partially obscured his view, recoiling in shock when something that did not belong came into sight.

Standing in front of the bottles, immersed in examining each and every one of them, was a customer.

He hadn’t noticed Abbott yet, but just the sight of him filled Abbott with a strange, morbid curiosity. He couldn’t remember a single time where Alastair had allowed him to directly interact with another person, except when he had been extremely sick as a child. Alastair had reluctantly called a doctor in after Abbott’s fever spiked beyond his control, but the doctor had taken one look at the nearly-feral child and left Abbott to suffer through it on his own.

But now Abbott had a chance to change his own life. Every part of him was screaming to turn back, his body aching in preparation of the bruises he would surely receive when O’Leary found out what he had done, but the idea of talking to another person drove him beyond reason. He moved to take a step towards the customer, but the logical part of his brain screamed out a warning that he had no choice but to obey. He froze mid-stride, his foot awkwardly scraping across the stone floor, echoing in the spacious room.

Wincing in fear, Abbott’s heart stopped as the customer turned around.

From first glance, the boy was around Abbott’s age. Sandy brown hair fell in soft hair over his ears, a striking contrast to his bright blue eyes, which were staring straight at Abbott.

Abbott hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he heard the boy speak into the silence. “Hey! Do you think you could help me with something?”

Abbott swallowed thickly, a thin layer of sweat suddenly deciding to make an appearance on his forehead. Recovering quickly, he found his voice enough to answer.

“Um, I don’t... I don’t work here, but...” He trailed off, knowing he would be in worse trouble if the boy was able to figure out he was Alastair’s ward.

The uncertainty in Abbott’s voice didn’t seem to faze the customer at all, though, and the boy simply shrugged and turned back to the display.

Abbott’s heart raced. He wasn’t ready for this to end so soon. Gathering his confidence, he cleared his throat again, louder this time. The boy turned his head slightly as Abbott stepped towards him.

“I think I could probably help you, though. What do you need?” Years of sitting in his room listening to O’Leary tend to the customers was finally good for something. The boy raised an eyebrow slightly but picked up the nearest potion in his hand.

“Okay, do you know how these potions work?”

Abbott forced his feet to move forward and approach the customer. His mouth suddenly dry, he licked his lips and replied, “Erm, well, they don’t work like your typical love potion. Normally, you have to put them in the food or drink of a specific person you are attracted to, and it makes them attracted to you back. Messes with their hormones, I think. This one you ingest, and it changes your hormones to make you seem more attractive to others.” At this point, Abbott noticed the young man watching him intently, and he suddenly became aware of how close they had gotten while he had been talking. “But, I mean, I’m no expert…” He trailed off, sensing the moment break as he stammered, “I- I don’t think you need it though.”

Awkward silence filled the room as Abbott realized the implications of what he had just said. He found himself staring at the other boy’s face as heat crept up his own, dusting his cheeks with crimson. He opened his mouth to correct himself, but no noise came out.

The customer gazed at him for a moment longer before a small grin broke out on his face, followed by a small snort of mirth.

“Nice one,” he said, the smile evident in his voice. Setting down the potion bottle back where it belonged, he wiped his hand on the side of his trousers before offering it to Abbott. “I’m Finnian, Finnian Granger. I apologize if I’m wrong, but I don’t think we’ve met before.

Happiness tugged at the corners of Abbott’s mouth as he spoke. “I’m Abbott,” he said in a soft tone. “Abbott… McClellan.”

His real last name was a mystery to him. He had been discarded on the Empyrium’s doorstep at the ripe age of one day old. The only thing that had been left along with him was a small silver knife, which was wrapped in a note. On the top was scrawled the baby’s name... Abbott James. Following it was an explanation about how Abbott’s parents thought their baby would be better raised by someone who knew about magic. Little did they know, the man they were turning their infant over to would neglect him for the next sixteen years.

The writer of the note had scribbled ‘MC’ at the bottom of the page. Abbott had often wondered what it could have stood for, and when he was younger he had decided that it represented his last name. He listened around in the shoppe for the names of customers, and one day he decided he liked the sound of McClellan. No one knew of it but him, but it made seven-year-old Abbott feel better, almost like he had a family out there waiting for his return. Someday.

Finnian clearing his throat snapped Abbott out of his stupor. “Well, Abbott McClellan, where are you from? Like I said, I’ve never seen you, and I know almost everyone in this town. See, I deliver papers. I was just stopping by to give old O’Leary his, but I’m guessing he isn’t here?” Abbott shook his head violently, making small shushing noises in order to get Finnian to keep his voice down. Alastair might have poor hearing, but any time his name was mentioned, he seemed to teleport into the conversation instantly.

Abbott would have thought it was teleportation, except he knew teleportation was one of the five impossible pieces of magic, along with bringing back the dead, creating something out of nothing, changing the past, and influencing the future. While O’Leary had dubbed Abbott’s powers ‘prophecies’, Abbott simply had the ability to view what was happening or find out how to solve a certain scenario using what was currently going on. Alastair liked to advertise the ability as more than it actually was, but Abbott knew it wasn’t fully true.

He looked up and realized Finnian was watching him intently. Blood rushed to his cheeks as he scrambled for a response.

“I’m not from around here,” he said in a hushed tone. “I’m from a town a little ways from here…”

“Barrington?” Finnian interrupted. “Or Chestnut Hills?”

“Barrington.” Abbott stated. “That’s the one.”

“My dad lives in Barrington,” Finnian mused. “Maybe I’ll see you around next time I go to visit.”

Abbott hesitated, feeling caught in a lie. “Yeah, maybe.”

Finnian nodded, but then moved to leave. “I gotta go deliver the rest of my papers. How long are you staying here in town? Are you staying with O’Leary?”

Abbott mulled over how to respond. “I’m here for a while. Yeah, I’m staying with Alastair. So maybe I will see you around?” He said the last statement almost like a question, hoping the answer would be yes. He was overjoyed at the possibility of interacting with another person, but more than that, Finnian gave him a sense of comfort he had never felt before.

The curly-haired boy grinned. “Definitely.” In a sweeping of robes, he was out the door.

Abbott stood, watching him leave out the window for a moment longer. He then sighed, and turned to go back to his room. Instead he found himself face to face with a livid Alastair O’Leary.

“What,” he growled, “the hell was that?”

Every inch of Abbott’s body screamed for him to leave, to run, to get out of that situation which he knew would end badly. But there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and Abbott knew that would just escalate the situation. So he stood his ground, his feet planted against the floor, and prepared for the beating that was to come.

Alastair stomped to the windows and pulled the curtains closed, a sure sign this would not end well. Turning round, he asked again, “Care to explain what that was?”

Abbott swallowed, tasting bile. “I… I was going to the bathroom, and-”

“Bullshit.” A fist caught Abbott in the face, knocking him onto his knees on the hard floor. “You weren’t anywhere near the bathroom. You came out here on PURPOSE. What did you want?”

Abbott spat onto the ground, tasting blood mixing with his saliva. “I just wanted to stretch my legs,” he mumbled. “I- I didn’t know he was in here or I wouldn’t have come out.”

“You don’t need to stretch your legs, boy. I give you plenty of space in that room of yours. Are you saying that’s not good enough for you?”

“No, I’m just…”

He was cut off yet again by a kick to the stomach. He hit the ground hard, laying with his aching cheek pressed against the cool stone as he was kicked over and over again. He felt something in his chest snap, but he was used to the pain, and had learned to dissociate from his body until the beatings were over. He felt the presence of the other man recede, and Abbott thought for a minute that he was done, but the man was back shortly with the broom. He raised the metal handle above his head and brought it down on the poor boy’s body, once, twice, three times, until Abbott lost count. His head was feeling woozy; the handle was sharp, and he could feel his blood spilling out onto the cobblestones. He was no stranger to pain, but this was surely worse than anything Alastair had ever done to him before. He felt his limp body being hoisted up and thrown back down, again, again, again, his head hitting the ground with a dull thwack each time until everything went black.

He awoke on the floor where he had passed out. The first thing he noticed was not the pain, but the immense embarrassment he felt. He had disappointed his master yet again. He was useless; nothing more than a puppet for O’Leary to play with.

Speaking of O’Leary: where was he?

Abbott made a half-hearted attempt to lift up his head, immediately noticing the immense pain that came with it. Radiating from his temple all the way into his chest and then out into his limbs, the pain made itself worse with movement. Red-hot daggers of fire drove themselves inside Abbott’s chest and twisted themselves in deep, deep, deeper than he thought pain could ever go. Every breath hurt; he regretted every heartbeat shaking through his body. Perhaps if his heart would just stop, the pain would go away.

He shook those thoughts away, chiding himself for being so dark, and continued his meager attempt to look for his master. He was nowhere to be found; the lights in the Empyrium were dark, with nothing but the glowing orbs in the jars along the wall to see by. He could barely see down the hall from where he was at, but he could see there were no lights on there, either, and Alastair always kept a light on in his quarters.

But if he wasn’t in the building, where was he?

He rarely ever left. With his poor temper and his fear Abbott would escape, he hardly ever set foot outside of the prison that was his home. Perhaps, Abbott mused deliriously, perhaps he thought I wasn’t a flight risk, and just left. Perhaps, if I could get this shitty sack of meat off the floor, I could leave and not look back. Just perhaps.

But the strain of thinking was too much for Abbott, and the pain overtook him yet again.

He next woke to the light filtering in through the curtains that had been so hurriedly drawn over the windows. It cast a strange glow on the floor, highlighting the dried blood surrounding his body. He contemplated this with his brain foggy, oblivious to the pounding on the door.

The noise faded in and out of his awareness until suddenly, it was louder than anything else. “Mr. O’Leary?” someone shouted with a gravelly voice. “I have your paper. Are you in there? Alastair? Abbott? Someone?”

Hearing his name being shouted confused Abbott. Who was this person? Did he know them? Why did they know his name?

Abbott opened his mouth, which hurt like hell after being punched in the jaw, and made a small noise. He hoped the other person could hear him and help.

“I can hear you in there,” they shouted. “Can you open up?”

The voice hesitated, then Abbott heard the doorknob jiggle.

“It’s unlocked,” the voice said loudly. “I’m just going to come put your paper on the front desk, okay?”

Abbott sighed in response. This person was going to come in. Maybe they could help him...

He recoiled as the door was pushed open and the piercing light struck his face. All he could see was a silhouette against the blinding glow, but it was enough to trigger some memories in his concussed brain.

The love potion… the customer…

Abbott opened his eyes, which had been shut tight against the light, to find the aforementioned eyes staring into his own worriedly.

“Abbott!”

He shut his eyes again. It wasn’t worth dealing with the pain. He’d rather just pass out. Or better yet, fall asleep and not wake up.

“Abbott, bud, open your eyes, please.”

The voice was pleading now, worried, a hint of panic edging its tone.

Abbott’s mind picked a helpful time to remember who this voice belonged to.

“Fin..nian?” he whispered, his voice raspy against his dry throat.

“Yep, bud, it’s me. What happened? Please, c’mon, stay with me…”

Finnian’s voice seemed to be fading away, criss-crossing into oblivion with the louder roar of the pain in Abbott’s head. He sighed sleepily. “O’Leary,” he slurred deliriously.

Finnian ran one hand through his messy curls. “Ok, ok. Can you sit up? Can I help you sit up? We gotta get you off this floor. Is there a bed here?”

Abbott’s eyes closed on their own.“ ’N the hall…” he muttered, trailing off as he lost what was left of his strength.

The other boy nodded. “Okay, I’m gonna lift you up. Can I do that?” he asked, his voice surprisingly calm, despite the stressful situation.

Abbott hummed in agreement. He was so far away from his body, nothing Finnian would do could bother him, he thought.

He was wrong.

As the other boy slipped a single hand under Abbott’s back to support him, a scream tore itself from Abbott’s throat- the cry of a wounded animal. He began to thrash, his limbs moving of their own accord. A strange green light began mixing with the dim sunlight in the room, and Abbott’s eyes flashed upon- pure emerald green.

Finnian jumped in surprise but continued to cradle the broken boy’s body, attempting to restrain the boy from hurting himself further.

Another scream ripped itself from Abbott’s mouth, and then a deep voice followed. “You… must… protect… him…”

Abbott’s limbs seized up one last time and then his body went still.

Very still.

Completely and utterly still.

~A quickly written piece of my school life experience in a moment of great sadness~

"That was a bad term."

"Well, you were learning!"

But I've been learning all my life.

In grade three, my test book got mixed with someone else's and I was ridiculed for being stupid.

In grade four, I thought I had written a great poem, and when I handed it in the teacher yelled about how bad it was in front of the whole class.

In grade eight, I failed a math test and no one could look me in the eye.

I failed my French test and had to go up to the teacher in the halls and ask her to retake it. She made me tell her again that I failed so that she would let me try again.

I studied the hardest I've ever studied for a science test, and still got a C-.

I misheard the teacher during a spelling test, and had to ask him to tell me the words again after because I got confused. He got angry with me, and even when I got them all right in the end, I still cried.

In grade nine, I stayed almost every day after school to get math help but I still almost failed every test.

In grade ten, I stopped trying and my parents told me I just needed to put more effort in.

In grade eleven, I got my first 90, but by the end of the term it was a 70 because I just couldn't do well enough on my tests.

In grade twelve, I studied hard for a history test, but what I studied wasn't on the test. I wrote what I knew, still failed. My old best friend laughed and wondered how I could get an F-.

By then, I was used to it.

In first year of university, I was alone with no friends and barley got by. My marks were okay, I thought I was going to be okay.

In my second term of university, I took courses that I shouldn't have, I didn't understand them and I suffered because of it. My GPA dropped from a 7.00 to a 5.20.

In my first term of second year I wanted to go abroad, so I studied harder, gave up shifts so I could focus on school work.

The papers I wrote and edited multiple times only came back with C's.

The amounts I studied weren't good enough to get me a decent grade.

The academic advisor told me with a frown my GPA might not be good enough to get me into the abroad program.

My drawing has never been good enough to get me anywhere.

My studying has never been good enough.

It seems my writing has never been good enough either.

I wished one day to try my hand at writing a book. I write stories, not essays, but I can't help but feel that I'll get the same reaction with my own personal writing that I currently get from my essays.

painting has become a painless medium

writing has become a windy, chilly day

reading has become tiresome and avoided

the seasons of my interests and hobbies

are changing, quickly sometimes

others - slowly, at first, and then a whirlwind of sadness

painting my emotions and what could have been

is exhausting, but the result is worthwhile

most of the time

writing has become a thing that i would like to do

the end result is praised and needed,

but the process is terribly saddening as i doubt myself

reading is a portal away from my existance

but opening up this portal is taxing on my health

so i don't get away very often

my only releases have dried out; used up

as i try to figure out how to swim in my reality

but, i failed all of my swimming lessons as a child

i don't want to drown anymore

but i don't want to fail one more time

and give up trying

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