Hazel eyes, lovely smile...

"Hazel eyes, lovely smile,
May I take you out tonight?"

She frowned. It was no good, she could not express it.

"Hazel eyes, lovely smile,
Shall we dance under this sky?"

She could not transform those feelings into words. But words were all she'd ever have, so this was a problem.

"Hazel eyes, lovely smile,
Will you stay with me all life?"

So it would have to do.

Here.

or all of you that feel down, who are used to cry rivers. For all of you that feel they don't deserve to be cheered up, to be carried, to be considered worthy.
All of you that have been attacked, not by words or weapons, but by your own feelings, your own self. All of you that, may it be because of your enviroment, stress, problems, or just genetics, feel useless, or failures, or simply wrong.

I'm here with you.

Alas (Final)

La mendiga, en su portal, no evitó sonreír

Y, cerrando los ojos, se oyó su suave reír

El muchacho, ajeno a esto

Continúo su obra, presto

Queriendo enseñar la esperanza encontrada al resto

Sin embargo, cuando el joven su obra acabó

Y a la mendiga para enseñarle el dibujo se acercó

Descubrió,con gran pesar

Que ella ya no podría despertar

Y una duda no tardó a su cabeza asaltar

"Habré llegado a tiempo?

Habrá podido esta señora

Volar como era su sueño?"                        

Silence (2)

He walked off the police station, where he had been called to confirm...to confirm what had happened, and walked down the street. He runned through his plan of action in his head.

He would go back there, obviously. After all, it was their - no, his home. And soon her family would come and fetch her stuff , so he had to be ready for when they arrived.
And he still had some projects to do for university, and some dishes to wash, and...
He laughed. It was a dry laugh, almost a bark. After all, it was so stupid...she had died, but the world still went on. He still had to wash the dishes. It was too funny, too ironic.
She had hated washing the dishes...

"How can I feel better?"

oday, I would like to ask a pretty simple question. Simple questions, of course, don't usually have simple answers, so this won't be as easy as you may think.
My question hasn't been answered yet, by no one. If it were that you can answer... Well, I can't promise wealth, or luck. I'm no magician, no millionare, But I can swear to my heart, if you find the answer, you will have my gratitude, not for now, but for eternity. How can an answer for a simple question be so important, you may be wondering. But first, please, hear me out.

My simple, humble question, is none other than the title.

You may be thinking, that it is not simple at all - rather, it is really, really complicated. But it is simple. What's complicated is the answer, how to explain it, express it, make it real.

Don't be fooled. I'm not saying I do not ever feel good. I'm asking for a way of breaking out of this sadness, of this layer of grief, that follows me anywhere I go. Sometimes, it looks like it has gone away. But no, oh no - it's always there, may it be hidden or in plain sight. It attacks when I'm unaware, hurting me, making me feel awful. And that doesn't really matter to me, but what it really does, is that it makes me hurt my loved ones. May it be because they don't like seeing me like that, or the worse option, because the grief takes out the worse of me. And I hurt them.

I hate it.

I want to feel better.

Untitled.

Please.

Be at ease,

Breathe with peace.

Don't fear to fly.

If you cry

I'll look at you in the eye.

And I'll tell you the truth

I'll be honest, never bluff

And we'll get this trough.

Why (3)

But this is who I am.

This is me.

And I know it. I do not love it, but I do not hate it either. Not because I like it or not, but just because that's who I am. I cannot think of it being differently, because it wouldn't be me.

It's like... noses. You don't love, or hate, your own nose, but it's there, it has always been. It's a part of yourself. 

So why can't I be who I am? Why isn't that just enough for the Heartless, being it the only way for me?

Hey girl.

[13/9 5:53 p. m.] Hey girl

[13/9 5:53 p. m.] You look lovely

[13/9 5:53 p. m.] And I'm feeling kinda lonely

[13/9 5:54 p. m.] Hey girl, I know it's late

[13/9 5:54 p. m.] But do you still want to take

[13/9 5:54 p. m.] The sorrow

[13/9 5:55 p. m.] The hate?

[13/9 5:55 p. m.] Hey girl

[13/9 5:55 p. m.] I'm feeling kinda lonely

[13/9 5:55 p. m.] Do you still love me?

[13/9 5:55 p. m.] Hey girl

[13/9 5:55 p. m.] You still here?

[13/9 5:57 p. m.] Hey girl

[13/9 5:57 p. m.] You aren't much around

[13/9 5:57 p. m.] You're covering in dust

[13/9 6:10 p. m.] We're covering in snow

[13/9 6:10 p. m.] And who knows if we'll thaw

[13/9 6:10 p. m.] Hey girl

[13/9 6:11 p. m.] Are you still with me? Do you still love being a we?

[13/9 6:11 p. m.] Hey girl

[13/9 6:11 p. m.] You still want to be here?

[13/9 6:11 p. m.] You not tired? You not sick?

[13/9 6:11 p. m.] Hey girl

[13/9 6:11 p. m.] You still listening?

[13/9 6:11 p. m.] You still think of this?

[13/9 6:11 p. m.] Hey girl

[13/9 6:12 p. m.] I'm sorry.

Alas (3)

Mi petición es sencilla, simplemente adornar

La espalda de esta vieja, con alas para volar

Alas resistentes, alas brillantes

Que me lleven tan alto, como mi voluntad quiera llevarme.

—Mi señora, alas de diamante yo a usted le daré

Y con ellas, muy lejos, verle volar podré

—Podrás, dulce muchacho? Pues otra ayuda pediré

Haz mis alas, mi persona, invisibles para quien

Esperanza no tenga, bondad no posea

Para quien no este roto, y para quien intentarlo no quiera

Hazme, en otras palabras, visible solo para aquel

Que igual que yo, igual que esta vieja, de doblado esté.

—Mi señora, me gustaría, sus ideas refutar

Mas se que escasos de tiempo nos podemos encontrar

Así pues, mi señora, su dibujo coloreare

Con el tono de esperanza que sólo el roto podrá ver

Que sólo el que realmente verle necesite

Para saber que subir no es para él imposible

By your side.

There's fire, fire in the sky...

Look, I'm telling ya. Even if the whole sky starts on fire, even if it crumbles and breaks and gets destroyed...

...there's water, water in your eyes...

Even if I cry, even if I die. Even if I'm not here. Even if you forget I was here once.

...there's steel, steel in your heart.

I will always, always, always be by your side.

Breathe.

I think breathing is something we should stop and consider from time to time.

We take some air in, some air out - unconsciously, automatically. We don't enjoy it. We don't notice it, most of the time.

Breathing is important, but it goes unnoticed.

What other important things won't we see?

Someone.

There's someone important for me.

They're precious.

They're beautiful, in every single way.

They aren't perfect, but only because no one is.

They're what keeps me going, on and on.

They're my strength and weakness.

And I want them to be okay. To be healthy, happy.

To be alive.

Why (2)

I'm not smart. Sometimes I can't see stuff like emotions, and I can't see the traps the Heartless set for me. I fail over and over again, in a hella lot of things.

I'm not strong.

Oh, no, I'm not strong at all. I'm weak, the weakest someone can be.

I break easily. I try to run away from my problems. When facing them, I usually just freeze, unable to move, or I just cry or shout, helplessly, as I do not know what to do.

I'm not strong physically either. I can't take something by force, or win a strength match.

I'm not fast.

I'm not someone who understands things at the first glance. I don't catch things on the fly, I must think. Also, I'm physically slow, at every possible activity.

I'm not good.

Iddle chat.

That's why — she said — I like iddle chat.

Talking is important.

Getting to know who you talk to is important.

But, truly... letting people know, by spending time with them, that you like them, that you treasure their jokes and rattle - that you appreciate the time that has passed while you were with them, and that you appreciate being able to keep enjoying more of their company - truly, that's the most vital, most sacred function of iddle chat.

Alas (2)

—Dulce muchacho, ¿qué haces, a esta mendiga pintando?
—Mi señora, disculpe mi osadía, mas no pude evitarlo
—Muchacho, no te preocupes, a esta vieja no molestas
Si quieres pintar, adelante, de mi no oirás protestas

Sin embargo, un favor tuyo querría pedir
¿Al retrato de esta vieja algo podrías añadir?
—Sin problema, mi señora, modificaré lo que me ordene
¿Que quiere que cambie? ¿Que quiere que quite? Al exigir no se frene

—Dulce muchacho, mi demanda, a pecho no te tomes
Sé que de ese dibujo depende el pan con el que comes

Epicity.

Epic.

Not epic in the slaying-monsters-and-defeating-evil way, or the moving-hearts-with-fake-words way.

No, of course not — some of us can't do those things. Can't save the world, or lie.

But what about doing what feels right? What about doing stuff just because it's the correct thing to do?

That's also epic.

Silence (1)

Hm, hi? Someone around here? No...?
Well...I can’t see anyone, but it’s not like I can see anything at all, so...whatever. I don’t know where I am, either. Or if I am somewhere at all. Hell, I don’t even know if I can be anywhere anymore.

Because, you know...I’m dead.

I always thought death was like sleeping. You know, I usually didn’t dream, I just went into bed (most of the time, at least) and...well, it felt like I was disappearing, little by little. Or sometimes it didn’t feel at all. Just...I was there, and suddenly I was waking up.
That’s how I’ve always pictured death. With just one little difference: I wasn’t supposed to wake up again.
But here I am. Funny, huh?
So...I’m not really sure for what I must do now, but I’m not really scared, or worried. I guess those are biologic things. And I ain’t alive anymore.
I guess...I guess talking - not actually talking, as I have no mouth anymore, but whatever - I guess communicating with empty space will get boring after a while. But...I feel as if I should tell my story.

Now, please, don’t get excited. It’s not an intriguing story, full of adventure. It’s just a normal, boring story. Hell, I don’t even remember most of it.
Oh, by the way...if there is someone out there, you can think of me as...Spark. That’s not my original name, but I do not feel like thinking about that one. And, well...they always said I was like one of those. That I destroyed everything I touched, like a fire. And sparks are just the start.
How can I start? After all, this is my story. I can’t start easily at the beginning, because the beginning happened when I was born, and I don’t remember anything about that. I can’t start at the end, because that wouldn’t make sense.

I guess I may try starting at the middle. That won’t make much sense, but then again, I’m the only one who needs to understand what I’m saying...And I’ll try making each little bit of my story in order, so each of them will make sense on their own. My memory is hazy, although it’s a little better than when I came to...so I guess it’ll improve eventually. 

Now, here goes...

Broken.

She had been destroyed, all of her. They had been peeling her, layer by layer, by filling her with sorrow, with pain, with guilt. Being it really her fault, or self-imposed guilt, hadn't mattered. 
She had now been reduced to her core. An insignificant, minuscule stone. All of her former self was gone.

She was now a piece of rock, but it wasn't a hard mineral. She had once have been made of diamond, but now it was all cracked, filled with tiny little lines that would soon shatter, and then there would be nothing left of her. 
And all the grief that had layered her was still there. It hadn't disappeared with each part of her, no - it had actually gotten worse and worse and worse, as she was perfectly conscious about what was going on. Now it was like a flame, a blue ball of pain that would try to finish her as soon as possible.

Guide

Here we have a little caption about what you can find in each section~.

• Thoughts: Random little things that cross my mind.
• Dark Thoughts: When everything looks black.
• For someone special: Who means the world.
• En Español: Palabras de papel.
• Silence: A story about what is kept inside.

Prologue (Silence)

—It can’t be.- he repeated.
They were both looking at the piece of paper.
—Why not? What makes you feel so sure about that?

—She...she never would have done something like that. - He shook his head.- She is...she was someone sweet, happy. She was...she was like a soda drink. Bubbly.
“Y’know, like one of those sparkling drinks. She sparkled with life, shining. She made you feel alive, just like those little bubbles when they go down your throat. She would come, half jumping, half running. She would come and bright your day...She did it, always. And...She won’t do it again...”

He was now almost crying. His eyes had that special kind of glow, the glow she had learned to detect as fastly as possible while years passed. They were tears, but of a special kind. Regret.

Although she already knew the answer, she asked the question. It was that the way how things were done, how they had to be done. There were reasons.

—Did you ever tell her?
He gave a little jump, startled, as if he had forgotten he wasn’t alone.
—Tell her? Tell her what?
—What you just told me. Or what you just told yourself. About herself.- He looked as if he was going to answer, but didn’t have a chance, as she continued talking.- No, of course you didn’t.

“You probably did tell her things about herself, though. Things like how she talked too much, or was never still.”

“You probably scolded her about not leaving you alone, about never letting you breathe.”

Her tone was harsh, but her words were even worse. Her face, that seemed that of an angel minutes ago, had changed. It was still beautiful, but now it was full of fury, of hate.

“You killed her. Yes, she held the knife, she wrote the note. But you, and everyone who did the same as you, all of you. You’re the ones who actually killed her.”

She closed her eyes, and took deep breaths. Finally, she spoke. There wasn’t any more anger, but her voice was f i lled with sadness - it was f i lled until the top, spilling over her words.

—Listen. You said she was like soda. But, you know how, if you let soda open for a long time, the gas disappears? You can’t leave the bottle open. You must close it, so it goes away slower.
“Even if you do that, it will slowly fade away, so you can put more soda inside. New soda, just opened, that has all its gas. That way, you can keep the same drink for a long time.”
“Do you understand? You can’t just take, you must also give. If she makes you happy, tell her. If she makes your life better, tell her. I’m not saying you should have shut up about the bad. But also should have said the good stuff , the stuf f that kept you with her. Some people need that.”

Sadness. That was what her voice gave away, but her eyes, that had slowly opened again, weren’t there. She looked as if she was far, far away, so far that he couldn’t possibly reach out to her if he tried.

—Listen, I know what I talk about.Never, ever, let this happen again.- She swallowed.- Even if it doesn’t happen again, you’ll feel guilty until the day you die. So let’s not let the burden you will carry become heavier.

“Our guilt...our guilt will always be here, always. The only think we can do...is giving their deaths a meaning. Hers, the one I caused, and all the ones that happen. We must understand why they happened. We must prevent them from happening again.” 

He looked at his hands, then back at the note. There was one single word, written with pen. The letters were wobbly, as if the writer had been shaking, and the paper was kinda rigid were tears had dried.


“Goodbye.”

Why (1)

There's times where the only help, the one little thing that could save you, just won't come.

I'm sick. Sick, tired, done. I'm just so full of this shit, there's little more I can bear of it.

Why is it so difficult? Why can't people ever recognize the efforts? They just rant and rant about how you must be smarter, stronger, faster, better. Why can't they be happy with who you actually are? Why can't they appreciate you?

Not saying that everyone looks at me and thinks, or says "Such a waste". Of course not - there's a lot of people that don't know you, or don't think so lowly of you, or maybe even notice everything. But the ones that hurt are those who criticize, those who look at you with disgust or plainly tell you you're a disappointment.

What I really need is them to stop.

Alas (1)

Mendiga, vieja y rota, tu historia quieres contar?

O es muy tarde el momento

Para un favor tuyo solicitar?

Un día, en su portal, la mendiga pedía

Aún sabiendo que, a estas alturas, de poco le serviría.

El hambre su salud había mermado

La enfermedad le había ya tomado,

Y su luz, un día fiera, ya casi se había apagado.

Sin embargo, un cambio le hizo los ojos abrir

A su frente, un joven parecía con su cuaderno escribir

La mendiga, observadora, comprendió

Que el joven no palabras guardó

Sino trazos de la imagen que ante sus ojos vio

Celebrate.

Pop. 

The silence is broken, the bottle now open. There's champaign flowing out of it, and dropping to the floor. But it does not matter, as everyone starts cheering.

Everything is going well, at last - at last your life is on the track. At last your problems are gone. At last, I can look at you in the eye and smile, with all my heart, because everything is finally well again. We can now be sure that we can face anything, as we already faced everything.

Rain.

It rains.

There's umbrellas for those who go out. There's people who stay at home. Cars need to go slower, as they can trip. People need to go slower, as they can step into a puddle.

It's raining.

What happened with those who got out and danced? What happened to those who were happy under the falling water?

What happened to those who cried, now that the rain could hide their tears? What happened to those who laughed, full of the joy of being alive?

Where are they? Where are the ones who love rain, now that it rains?