#assassincreeds

I WAS WONDERING WHEN THIS BLOG WOULD RETURN TO US ALL

:) (that’s me screaming w/ my mouth closed)

one’s freedom from one’s own self comes with the illusion of happiness, she thinks, and thus her adventures with reality, acknowledgement, and the lack thereof begin.

one, she breathes: this is the first ingredient of her recipe; her lungs fill with the immortality of her dreams, of her reluctance, of her desire for freedom. she defines freedom with the curves of her fingers and the fabric of her clothing; brushes of dark paint against a canvas, dusk, and everything fear-free. one, she breathes, and she feels herself on her fingertips.

two, she speaks: with the small tip of her head, the lines of her shoulders, the arch of her back and the glint in her eyes. she’s never truly spoken before, not because of the apparent fear, but because of the lack of an obvious opportunity, so two, she makes one herself.

three, she lives: every step is an earthquake, every sigh is the cluster of an artificial tornado rising airplanes leave behind; she teaches herself to fly, in her own little ways, under her own circumstances, and when, if, someone asks her: “how,” she says she does not know. she does not. so three, she lives without the knowledge, but the freedom.