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.