Silver-child, there is sorrow in your bones and fear in your heart. Solitude clings to your limbs, wrapping about you like a well-worn childhood blanket –– comforting, melancholy, bittersweet, and yours. It has claimed you, and you let it. You let it console you in its painfully familiar way, weighing you down and leaving you restless. (There is a song, a funeral fugue, in your mind, and you listen to it as it washes you away, mixing desertion and condemnation into a cocktail so very bitter.)
Funeral pyre-born boy: There is something holy in your hollow bones. (You carved them out yourself, ripping old personas away and leaving yourself uninhibited and new.) You are raw, raw, raw, blistering and burning and bright–– A supernova birthed you, and LORD, did it hurt when you were spat out into the cold, cold, cold world. You are something brilliant and burning, blood molten and searing. You have never been docile, not once: They tried to cage you, contain you into a purgatory-cold grave, but iron-boned boys are not broken so very easily.
CONDEMNATION–– Your self-named criminality bites deep, and with your bare hands you dig your own grave, carve your own tomb. Gentle souls are imprinted upon easily, and you sing a mourner’s song for your crimes. Precious child, you did no wrong; no-one blames you for what you did. There is nothing wrong with you. (No-one can hold you accountable for what you did to survive.)
Bird-boned boy: Your mind is clouded, dreary, but still you try, try, try, try. You are not weak; you are not hopeless. You could not find a light, so you made your own –– but oh, heed the words of those around you. Do not burn yourself up seeking the sun. People love you because you are brilliant, bright, and burning, but when you fall to ashes who will be there for you?
Who looks after forest fires when they are burning out? Who turns them into hearth and home?
–– –– –– –– Solitude is your way, but you are not a solitary soul.
(CNS)
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