Phoenix: A Symbol of Resilience and Renewal
My favorite mythological creature has to be the Phoenix. There's something undeniably captivating about this magnificent bird that rises from its own ashes, symbolizing renewal and transformation. As a human, I'm drawn to the Phoenix because its attributes resonate deeply with the human experience.
The idea of the Phoenix's immortality through rebirth is incredibly inspiring. It represents the eternal cycle of life, death, and resurrection, reminding us that even in our darkest moments, there is the potential for a fresh start. In a world where we face challenges and setbacks, the Phoenix serves as a beacon of hope, encouraging us to embrace change and grow from adversity.
Furthermore, the Phoenix's fiery nature is symbolic of passion and intensity. It's a reminder that in order to truly rise above our challenges, we must face them with a burning determination and a fierce spirit. The image of the Phoenix bursting into flames before its rebirth is a powerful symbol of the transformative power of adversity and the strength that can emerge from the ashes of our struggles.
The Phoenix's majestic plumage and radiant beauty also symbolize the idea that from destruction can come something even more magnificent. It teaches us to find beauty in impermanence and to appreciate the fleeting moments in life. Just as the Phoenix's feathers ignite in a brilliant blaze, we should strive to make our lives shine brightly with purpose and meaning.
So, the Phoenix appeals to me as a symbol of resilience, renewal, and the indomitable spirit of the human soul. Its attributes remind us that no matter how many times we fall, we have the potential to rise stronger, wiser, and more beautiful than ever before.
What is the job of a poet
i may use a rhyme
some clever little lines-
perhaps just some wanting emotions~~
words become my muse
and the emotions of your mind that i may use
to deliver something to make you feel.
i can reach into your childhood
cradle your worst of times
your whims, heart's needs and desires
lines like verbal marionette strings
sonnet of fourteen lines to compel you
in iambic pentameter sway your mood to something new
but then again wait,
what when the poet serves self,
the words meant for us
what if when we bear our souls
and wear our emotions in words
we share our inner dialogue
because our hearts know how your hurts
what if when we proclaim joy
or when tears end up on the page
we know by sharing one emotion
we are also sharing change
in times i have wanted to die
i would write and share of love
in times i have went months without human contact
i'd form my words into hugs
word have strengthened my faith
gave me reason to 'move on'
kept me from lying to myself
and helped me not feel alone
but
some poets write for novelty
for stirring of the mind
perhaps for self reflective use
to give us something with to unwind
some poets write pretentiousness
for pretentious minds
some write for revolution- but not many in our time
a poets job is to use words
for self, others, or all
to express how sweet is victory
to describe being emotionally mauled
and they
you
or i
take the job to task-
at the very least, we have created something
and as humans that is all we can ask
The spider and the fly
Dear Reader,
I wish I could tell you that you're going to survive this, but, that would just be polite, kind even, and though I am frequently polite, I am rarely kind. Would I have lured you to my lovely lair, enticing you with words you longed to hear, caressing your fragile ego, filling your already cluttered mind with vague promises you construed as you wished to believe what you would, just to set you free willy nilly? Decidedly not, dear Reader. Look around. Would I have led you oh so gracefully to this widowless room, locking the door gently behind you (Did you drop the letter to check the door, or let it dangle, forgotten, from your hand, numb with shock or, shall I say it?, fear?) Would I have left you here awaiting what fate has in store, to dwell upon what must to you be my loathsome decor, of blood spattered walls and floor, if you had even an infinitesimal hope of seeing the dawn?
Did you drop the letter to run screaming to the door, banging your fists till they bled? Or did you simply sink to the floor a huddled heap, to weep?
However you react, know that I am licking my lips in acute anticipation. I am the spider, you are the fly.
Tonight, you die.
Listen closely, dear Reader, in the stillness of the night. As the shadows draw closer, press in, the game will begin when on an impossible wind near your ear, you'll hear my voice as I whisper your name.
Till soon...
Oh, How The Tables Have Turned
If you make a mistake in your writing, fear not because it's ediTable
If you received Elvis collector plates for Christmas, smile and remember that the tacky things are regifTable.
Shallowgenepool can best be described as unsTable and untrusTable. Much of what he writes is unrepeaTable and deleaTable. He should be ashamed to write things so conTemptable. Certainly what the freak writes is unprinTable. Someone should kick him off of TheProse because his writing could make the site unrepuTable.
If it's green, leafy, and cultivaTable, it might be a vegeTable. If it's also yummy it's delecTable. Conversely, if it tastes yucky it's unpalaTable. It is therefore, uneaTable.
If you ended up with dysentery after a weekend of debauchery in Tijuana, it's because you drank unpoTable water. If during afore mentioned trip to Tijuana you get crabs from a clandestine meeting with a $5 prostitute, you're likely very uncomforTable and irriTable. If the meeting with the prostitute also led to bringing gonorrhea home as a souvenir, that's just regretTable. To get treatment, you go to the doctor and you have to explain you hold yourself accounTable for bringing home the clap that doesn't require hands. To avoid this happening again, the next time you're horny and sexually exciTable, you'll find the kind of date that's inflaTable. If you're sating your animal lust on a boat and you fall in, your date is also floaTable.
Seeing bigfoot riding the Loch Ness Monster would definitely be noTable.
If you've ever eaten gov'ment cheese, you know that it's not melTable.
If you like blowing things up, you enjoy all things deTonatable.
Sowing the Genes of Love...
Hello, Brilliant, Beautiful Writers:
A piece by one of our masterminds and maestros waits below the message in this letter to you all, after a sentence that says, "Here's the link."
Here's the link.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SO0-38LJTEM
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Yaga
A part of her is in essence, mentioned in the most cruelest of labels. 'Evil.' Nevermind the part in which woman was added as another adjective to her description, because it's quite apparent she is no man. No, but evil describes her well, almost perfectly.
If I had not been a cocky man, I might have lived a quieter life.
Unfortunately, I was no such lad.
I had seen her house in the distance, crept around it at the bottom of it's large raptor-like feet, then tickled the end of my quill onto it to see if the house would quiver. And oh, did it quiver before lifting up onto one large leg and scratching at itself. I only know because I nearly got stamped into the deadening leaves and mushy Earth underfoot when it tried to twist away from my feather as I tried to inspect the bottom of its feet.
Bumblefoot, I would have expected like those of the chicken farmer, but far from it.
Hardly dusty, just a little dirty, but shapely to the point they looked deliciously tasty if chicken feet were served in my village.
I only wondered if there was meat on the-
I would have marveled over my near-death experience a little more if the witch hadn't descended from the house in a rage, screaming over her tipped brew. I thought I could hide away, but she had a keen nose for anything living and sussed me out easier than I thought. That was more terrifying than the house when I shriveled up under her gnarled hands that had the strength of three full grown men.
In the craze of it all, I hadn't just stood there gaping at her like an idiot. No, I attempted to tear away, hoping my clothes would give, but she snatched me up from the floor at our feet to heft me over the height of her crippled form to stare up at me before saying 'I'd do well enough' and then dragged me back inside.
Into her dark lair, a place where men and children never come from.
But what of women? Well, women rarely come here. They are home with their babes... and so only fools dense enough like myself are privy to their eyes to be caught wandering their woods.
There, I had laid there, closer than probably any other writer ought to have got... Well, before their untimely demise, as I watched her reassemble her house's tidiness with a flick of her finger and twist of her wrist.
Chanting. More chanting. I could nearly hear the house light up to life inside.
Things skittering, glass scraping.
Bottles unshattered, climbed back up onto shelves, and liquid spilt steamed up off the floor. Some of it arched like lightning in the air, crackling and popping while the brew in the center of the house howled and screamed when she scraped that away. I shudder to imagine what those things were to make them do as they had, but I knew I should have been noting my escape rather than taking notes on her house interior.
"Ruin. Ruin... Ruin to run," she whispered, mumbling some other weird incantations to herself as she busily cleaned up the mess I had caused. A part of me wondered if I had foiled her latest brew to steal the life of the local children, but then I wondered if children were the only things these yagas stole the life from.
"A man of great youth, mine to find."
My eyes flicked up to meet her, surprised by her sudden appearance to my left. I hung upside down nearly, my back across the cradled bird's house.
I wanted to gasp, to ask what she'd do to me, but she only smiled.
"Nicholas, Nicholas. All the blame. Curious man, born with shame."
The evil hag knew my name. Knew of me. Knew I was not one in the same. I didn't know they turned young men to witches rather than dine.
The Lost Song
What is that, Dr. Roberts? A map, to The Temple of the Sun God. Within, lies riches your eyes couldn't begin to imagine. I found the map during my recent expedition into South America. It's said to hold, among other valuable items, The Pan Flute of the Sun God. An ancient flute bestowed upon the People of the Sun by the Sun God. They say, that if you play the flute it will bestow great prosperity upon your lands., and heal your people. I have been searching for this flute ever since I herd of the legend as a child. My father, bless his soul, searched for the flute his entire life. Its been my life's goal to finish my fathers work, and Toomy, this is the start of our journey.
Oh my dear Toomy, can you imagine the things we could accomplish with that flute. The museum would be famous, and I would be put in history books. The museum would be forever in my debt. We could go on book tours and television shows with the flute. What if we unlocked some hidden power within the flute, we could do anything and it all starts with this map, and a phone call to a travel agent. Toomy my pal, we are on our way.
I don't know, Dr. Roberts, what if we do unlock a hidden power? Something really terrible could happen as well, you never know. Your fathers journal, it says there are puzzles and traps, caverns and rock walls. This could be an extremely dangerous journey. Not to mention the possibilities of animals and other natural things that could happen. Its not that I am afraid, I'm just saying, we should be careful.
Don't be such a worry wart, Toomy. When have I ever let you down? Besides, what would you use the flute for? Honestly, I wouldn't play the flute, I would be to afraid something bad would happen. I think I would just preserve the flute, some things are better left alone. I understand what you are saying doctor, but I guess I am just a little more cautious.
So we gathered our packs and gear, made the travel arrangements, and traveled to South America. We set off too find The Temple of the Sun God and to retrieve The Pan Flute of the Sun God. We left almost immediately after gathering our things. We wasted no time gathering supplies and water. Dr. Richards took her pet bird to a friends house, and we set off. First we had to arrive in South America, and make it to the jungle. After that, we needed to secure a guide. Preferably one with knowledge of the legend.
When our plane landed, Dr. Roberts, wasted no time. She gathered our things and a map of the area, and we set out. When we arrived in the jungle, the way to our first village was treacherous enough. We waded through waters, and I got the biggest leach on my leg, I had ever seen. Dr. Roberts laughed as she had to burn it off, of course, but the scariest thing was when she said...DON'T MOVE! And don't make eye contact. I heard the biggest gorilla, off about 150 yards, right ahead. He threatened and charged, but as he didn't see us as a threat, he eventually moved on.
We arrived in the village, where we met our guide, Miguel. He was a native to the jungle, and had a little knowledge of the legend. He was a hunter and trapper by profession, and he sold the pelts of the animals he killed. He would also sale the meat and make tools out of their bones. Nothing went to waste when Miguel killed an animal. He wasn't very intelligent, but he was an awesome hunter
"Miguel, do you know where this cave is?" Dr. Roberts wasted no time with getting to the point. "Yes, that is The Cavern of Izrah, a holy place. It is said that many bad things happen in that cave." Bad things or not, that is where we will find our next clue. I have plenty of ammo and first aid packs for the trip, whenever you are ready. We must reach the cavern quickly, weather is coming in.
If it hadn't been for all our gear, we would have reached the cavern a lot sooner. These jungle pathways are nearly impossible to navigate. Along the way, Miguel killed a couple wild animals to eat. Honestly, I was so hungry I didn't care what I was eating. The fish was pretty good too, Miguel really knew how to cook, especially over an open fire. That night, I ate way too much.
We traveled nearly all day before we got to the rock wall we had to climb. In order to get to the cavern, we had to scale a rock wall, the cavern was about 24' up. Once inside, we navigated the rough terrain inside the cave. We where about an hour into the cave, when we saw the remains of a small cave-in. "Should we be worried about that?" I asked. "Well," he said in a vague tone, "should be fine."
We came across a strange door in the cave. It has three dials on it with animals on them. The doctor pulls out her fathers journal and turned to a page, looking deep in thought. "It says here, to solve the puzzle wrong and be doomed. Luckily my father already has the answer to the riddle. In order to continue we align the dials to, tiger, bear, eagle. All of a sudden a small chamber opens with an old compass inside.
On the way back out, we heard a rumbling in the cave. Like a collapse deep in the tunnel ahead. We tread carefully and quickly, just to get out before something terrible happened to us. If we got trapped in this cave, we would never get out. Luckily we where able to find a hole in the rubble, just enough for us to squeeze through. Miguel, said that we where lucky not to have died.
That night, outside the cave, I awoke to Miguel and Dr. Roberts talking outside the tent. I heard Miguel tell the doctor, that he thinks we are being followed. For the past two nights he said he had heard some footsteps outside camp, and had seen some shadows in the bushes. "Not to worry though, I am keeping a close eye on things. It was a little hard to sleep after hearing that, but I finally did.
The next day we woke up to a ransacked campsite. All of our things where thrown out of our packs. They had to be looking for the compass, said the doctor. I had it in my sleeping bag with me last night. Somehow I had a feeling something would happen. We will have to keep an extra eye out for these people. Miguel pulled out a gun and begs for them to come back.
Once all of our gear is back in order, we followed the compass, blindly I might add. It wouldn't point north, and the needle would change directions. After what felt like days of effort and futility, and following that accursed compass, we had to stop and take a breather. We had been so excited about the flute we hadn't been sleeping much at night. Disorientation began to set in, and we had to rest. It was dark by the time we got our camp set up, and we slept most of the next morning. When we got up, our site had been ransacked again, but still to no avail. The doctor still had the compass and journal hidden, as well as the map. Nobody was getting them.
We set out again that morning, following the compass. It seemed like we would never reach The Temple of the Sun God. After another day of hiking through the dense jungle, we finally made it. We have reached The Temple of the Sun God. It was an awe inspiring structure, covered in vines and statues, honoring the Sun God. When we walked up to the temple we saw the last puzzle we had to solve in order to gain entrance.
This puzzle was the same as the last one, but with different animals, and more to align. Dr. Roberts looked in her fathers journal once more, thinking hard. "Lets see, we have to align bear, snake, eagle, bear, snake." Once aligned the temple shook with a thunderous rumble, as the door opened. We slowly entered, taking time to look for artifacts. There were old statues and vases everywhere, but that wasn't what we where looking for. We where after The Pan Flute of the Sun God.
According to the journal, we must first navigate the maze deep within the temple. Through the back room we saw a stairway leading down, down into the bowels of the temple. Miguel lit a torch and began to slowly descend the stairs. Deep inside the temple was a, seemingly, never ending maze of lefts and rights. There where dead ends and circles everywhere, I bet we were in that maze for an hour or more, but at the end we saw it. Our prize at last, The Pan Flute of the Sun God.
This looks too easy, said the doctor, and as she slowly went for it...an arrow flew into her shoulder. As Miguel and I turned around, we saw our pursuers. They had followed us into the temple, and waited until we had the flute in our sights. As they held us at gun point, their leader went for the flute. As soon as he touched it, a ceiling tile fell and killed the other team.
Interesting said the doctor, as she opened the journal once more. "What do we do," I asked the doctor. We can't just leave it here, we need to preserve this flute. There is only one thing I know to do, "Toomy grab the flute, you are the only one here who can get it." As I nervously reach for the flute a soft little tune came out of it. I put it up to my mouth and a vast array of lights and beautiful harmonies filled the temple. And then a beautiful wave covered the jungle and went all over everything. The beauty was absolutely stunning. Suddenly a room opened up with a number of priceless gems and artifacts. As we started for the treasure the room started to cave in around us, and we could only escape with the flute. Well, the flute and our lives.
Monster
When I think of the word “monster” I think of my daughter.
It was an involuntary reflex, an automatic thought as my academic husband would have called it, the association between “daughter” and “monster” carved into the recesses of my brain, my neurons easily connecting the two concepts together.
I know it is not the correct way to feel about one’s own child, and for many years I punished myself for it. Over and over I admonished myself for feeling the way I did. It was abhorrent, going against every natural human instinct to love and care for one’s flesh and blood.
For a mother it was especially unforgivable.
To be fair, to this day, I am convinced my daughter is a monster.
I knew from the moment I held her in my arms, the way her pale blue eyes absorbed all the light in the room, reflecting nothing back, like a demon. I felt no surge of love when they gave her to me wrapped in pale pink fabric, after hours of exhausting labor. The only thing I felt when her skin touched mine was pure disgust, the nausea causing my eyes to water.
My husband Erick mistook the tears in my eyes to be from joy.
“She is beautiful isn’t she?” He had smiled so brightly then, as he took my child from me and held her in his arms, like he had just been given the most precious gift. “Arla. I want to name her Arla.”
“I’m… not feeling well.” I had managed to choke out. Even then I knew, I knew what I was feeling was abnormal… deplorable. Erick would not have forgiven me. It was not a forgivable thing.
“Of course, of course, honey.” Erick barely took his eyes off her. He was charmed already, my husband, the first of many that my daughter would have under her spell. Everybody it seemed, except for me.
—
Arla was sixteen when the deaths started.
There were dead animals before that, of course, pets mysteriously disappearing or getting ill. I could never prove it, there were always perfectly reasonable explanations, with Arla’s beaming innocent face dispelling any suspicions. It was also possible, of course, that I was simply insane, and that I had spent the last sixteen years harboring a sick delusion about my daughter, like the deplorable broken human being that I am.
Trust me, that thought never strayed far from the back of my mind, a whisper of doubt in every interaction, every innocent comment, every seemingly innocuous event that could have a thousand meanings and repercussions.
Arla was never overtly malicious to me, but here and there, she would do something so unexpectedly hurtful, and she would look fascinated, absolutely riveted, at her power to wound me. It was like she was surprised at her own strength, at her ability to affect other people. I often got this feeling around Arla, that everyone in the world existed only to entertain her.
Nobody else seemed to share these feelings about my daughter, of course.
That was okay, I was rather adept at pretending now. I’ve had sixteen years of practice, after all. Two… maybe three more years and Arla would flee the nest and I would be able to finally breathe again. Two years. That was hardly any time at all.
I was perfectly ready to continue our farce of a happy family for another few years, burying all my dysfunctional feelings under practiced smiles and nice suburban rituals, but then that one cursed afternoon, while doing some half-hearted house cleaning... I found the lock box under Arla’s bed.
After that I could no longer keep pretending.
—
I stared at the contents of the box in front of me in quiet trepidation. Even then, even then, my brain looked for other explanations, for more innocent reasons, for what Arla had been keeping under her bed.
“Mom.”
I stiffened. A chill ran down my spine. I shook it off as I turned my head to look at my daughter.
Arla stood by the kitchen counter with her dark copper hair in a messy bun, wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and shorts way too short for a sixteen year old. She was beautiful, people always said, ever since she was little. She was not merely pretty, no, that word denoted a level of wholesome innocence, soft symmetrical features that was pleasant to look at. No, Arla had that rare kind of bewitching beauty that stopped people in their tracks, to the point that it was unsettling.
At this moment, she looked like she had just woken up, the hint of sleep still in her eyes, and somehow that made her look more ethereal.
“Hey darling.” I said, my mouth dry.
Arla shot me an amused look. Her pale blue eyes glinted beneath impossibly long lashes, first resting on my face, then landing on the open box on the dining table in front of me. She remained silent.
“Arla… I found this under your bed.” I said lamely.
She looked back at me and the glance between us made the air in the room feel thin.
I swallowed. Not for the first time I wondered how completely abnormal it was, the way my daughter made me feel, as if I was as small as an ant, an insect she was thinking of crushing under her heel.
There was just something about her eyes. It was blue, so blue. A pale, unnatural color. Vampiric.
Suddenly, she shrugged, and the weird aura dissipated. "And?”
And?
I turned back to the contents of the box. There were at least ten of them. Different colors and textures. Locks of hair each bundled together with a thin piece of pink ribbon. One particular lock of hair looked like it came from a friend of Arla's from middle school. The one with the thick dark curls. The one who went missing five summers ago.
I picked up another lock that was shorter than the rest. A flaxen bundle with a hint of gray. Like Erick's.
“Where did these come from, Arla?” I asked, tears stinging the back of my eyes. Was it possible? Despite everything I was still hoping I have simply gone insane, that maybe my mind just broke sixteen years ago, a sort of postpartum psychosis that never went away, that maybe, maybe my daughter was simply my daughter, an ordinary girl with an unfortunate mother. I tried, I really tried, to be loving to her throughout the years, even though I… was afraid of her.
Arla sighed and pulled a chair to sit down across from me. She suddenly looked older than her sixteen years. She held my gaze.
“I know you think I’m evil, mother.”
“I don’t…”
“Stop.” Arla held her hand up, interrupting my protestations. “I know, mother.”
I closed my eyes, and I realized I was crying, two trails of tears had made their way down my cheeks. Inexplicably, I was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of relief. I knew then that it was finally out there, in the ether, something close to the truth, the invisible walls between us finally broken. I could let them out now, these feelings I have been so ashamed of.
“I didn’t kill them.” Arla said, her voice gentle and even, as if she was talking to a child. “I know that’s hard for you to believe. You’ve always been the only person to see it, you know, the darkness in me, nobody else could.”
I took a breath.
“Look at me, mother.” Arla commanded with quiet urgency. “Really look.”
I opened my eyes and gasped, a scream caught in my throat.
Sitting in front of me was not my beautiful daughter, instead, it was a deep gray humanoid apparition, with black voids for eyes, wings like those of a vulture, and large angled horns… like a demon’s.
“Don’t be afraid.” The creature said. “I know how it looks, but I’m not evil, mother. I simply… am.” It motioned to the locks of hair in the box. “It was their time. I loved them, all of them, that’s why I kept these. But it was their time. Do you understand?”
“I…”
“It will be your time too, mother, someday.” The apparition was gradually becoming hazy, morphing back into the familiar form of my daughter. The copper hair, the pale blue eyes, the unnaturally straight teeth. Suddenly I was looking at Arla again, and she was smiling. “But not yet, you see? But when the day comes, I want to be there, to guide you. Most people don’t see the real me, they only see this.” She motioned to herself, the perfection of it, the beauty and youth. “I’m sorry I can’t be as comforting for you... But you brought me into this world, so of course you could see what I really am.”
“And what’s that?” I managed to ask.
“Death.” Arla said simply. A sadness crossed her face. “Every so often, I take human form. I find it necessary, to continue to appreciate the lives that I take. Also... to love. Though I know I could never love the way humans do... Not really.” She held my gaze. "I envy you."
A breath of air felt stuck in my chest. “Arla…”
“It’s okay, mother.” She smiled, then reached across the table to touch my hand. I had to fight the urge to recoil. “You will never love me, I know. But believe it or not, I love you, in the way I know how, I really do, and that’s enough, okay?”
I released the breath that I was holding. Part of my brain wondered if I was actually having this conversation. Or if my delusion has reached its pinnacle. But one look at my daughter, the unsettling beautiful face, the feeling of her cold hand on mine, and I knew, I knew in my heart that it was true.
My daughter, the monster.
“It’s okay, mother.” The monster said again. A small nod, as if giving permission.
A weight I didn't know I had on my chest lifted. Somehow I was no longer afraid. Instead, I was... grateful.
I lifted my gaze to catch my daughter's eyes and gave her a half-hearted smile.
"Thank you, Arla." In one swift motion I swung the knife I was holding across the monster's slender neck, an explosion of red blurring the edges of my vision, and finally.... finally, for the first time in sixteen years, I could breathe.
---
Dear Reader...
Dear Reader,
I wish I could tell you that you're going to survive this. But you won't.
Well... not all of you. You can't always walk out of your battles completely intact, we're much to fragile for that. Even the strongest of stones, that which has seen the universe and everything that came before us, eventually get carved out from storms. The gentle water keeps washing them clean, beating against the exterior, shaping something that only nature might create. You should know, even the softest things, like the drops of water that fall from the heavens, can wear out your heart and penetrate your thickest skin. You are not a stone after all. You are a human, with a soul, who protect the blood that runs through your veins, even subconsciously. Yes, the storm is coming at you, and you must fight it. But here is a universal truth: where there is an external battle, an internal one brews as well.
Look inside of you, tell me where you see the bruises. Tell me if you can still see your own heart. Tell me where the scars line your skin, moving like Van Gogh's Starry Night. You tell yourself it's okay, it's okay if your hands are stained red, it's only your own blood anyway. I'm sure people look at you, in broad daylight and give you a small smile, only to say "You'll get through this." And yes, you will get through this, but not all parts of you will survive it.
There's an Arabic saying, “You want to die? Then throw yourself into the sea and you’ll see yourself fighting to survive. You do not want to kill yourself, rather you want to kill something inside of you.” So in this way, you will cut away parts of yourself. You see, my beautiful child, the horrid truth is, that in order for you to survive, you will end up sacrificing other parts of yourself.
To this day, I can look in the mirror and tell you, that I can only see the parts of me I've killed to ensure other parts of me survive. Survival is messy, not all of you will make it, but you are greater than the sum of your parts. My love, the clock will keep ticking, and your heart will still keep beating. I'll tell you another secret: survival is overrated. We've destroyed the word. You see, soldiers come out of battle and we say, "my god, it's wonderful they survived." But if you look into their eyes, it'll tell you something different, it'll tell you that they did not survive. Too many parts of themselves had been lost, cut away, stolen. They got through it, but they did not survive.
It's a curse of having strong shoulders. It's pessimistic to say, but go on, meet me in the sea and I will take your hand and we will ensure that we get through it. I can't promise survival for all of you, but I promise that the best parts of you will make it through.
Like I said, survival is overrated.