I’m doomed to some kind of hell,I know.
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
What if I can’t tell what is real and what is yet to be… what if I get lost in these dreams, lost in the massacre and the torment of them, where I can’t tell if I’ve lost them already or if I’m yet to mourn them… is this blood truly on my hands, or is it waiting to be set… are my eyes open?… am I seeing out of my own, or are they being peeled open by these prophecies…
And if they are not mine, then whose sight do I borrow? Whose grief is this that settles so heavily in my chest, as though it has already carved a home there? I feel it before it happens the breaking, the screaming, the silence that follows and yet I stand untouched, suspended in the moment before ruin, unable to change its course, unable to turn away.
There is fire, sometimes too bright, too hungry to be mistaken for anything ordinary. It does not rage wildly, it gathers… as though called, as though summoned with trembling hands that believed they could control it. I see a hall no, not see, feel it stone and heat and something sacred turned desperate. Voices echo where they should not, laughter swallowed too quickly, turning sharp, splintering into something that claws at the air.
And there is someone there ,there is always someone. A presence that feels like memory and future tangled into one, like I have known him all my life and not at all. A crown that sits too heavily, or perhaps not yet at all. A certainty in him that fractures at the edges, as though hope itself has been set alight.
I do not know his name. I only know the grief of him.
The fire does not spread it takes. It consumes with purpose, with intent that feels almost holy, and yet there is nothing divine in what remains. Only ruin. Only the quiet after, thick and suffocating, as though the world itself is holding its breath in shame.
It is the waiting that unravels me most. Not the visions themselves, but the stillness after, when the world continues as though nothing has shifted, while I am left carrying the weight of something not yet done. How do I speak of horrors that have not come to pass without sounding mad? How do I warn them without becoming the architect of the very fate I fear?
Perhaps that is the cruelest part of it that in trying to escape what I see, I may only be guiding it into being. Every choice feels like a step deeper into something already written, every breath a quiet surrender to an ending I cannot yet reach.
I watch as if it might change, as if the edges of these visions might soften, as if mercy might find its way into them if I look closely enough. But it never does. It only sharpens, grows clearer, more certain, until I no longer know if I am remembering or foreseeing.
Tell me when the moment finally comes, when blood meets earth and grief takes shape will I feel relief for having been right… or horror at knowing I was always meant to be?
Daeron drinks are on me, damn you may not drink enough with what you got 😭
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