#awakesforce

I MEAN YOU’RE NOT WRONG

GOOD MAN;;                  honestly!!! hONESTLY!!!!!! wander omg this is too sweet and im so wrecked over this entire message and how lovely you are bc YOU’RE telling me i love my muse so much when you get magical rey thoughts at 4am that i adore reading and i just!!!! this community is a little bit brighter with you in it and i’m so excited for what 2017 brings us. here’s to having a wonderful year and wacky shenanigans together ❤︎❤︎❤︎

  END OF 2016 : TELL ME ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING     YOU’VE EVER WANTED TO TELL ME, ANON OR NOT!

for the end of 2016, tell me something ( anon or not ) that you’ve been wanting to say.

off duty. WANDER! wander wander <3 I’m so so glad that I know you, I really am. It’s been a pleasure to follow you, to talk with you, to get spied on by the NSA for our illegal usage of the word “moist” with you....... ahhh, good times, good times. 

_(:3」∠)_

finn... le a r ni n g... to bun... her hair for her... so when she has to wake up early for training she can just... close her eyes and let his gentle fingers comb back her fine strands... rip in pieces here lies emms.

@shadcwpreacher replied to your post:

PICTURE ME DYING TBH

jokes on you we’re already dead!!!! honestly rip!!!! finn braiding her hair and blowing at her ear so she giggles and pulls away and they have to start braiding all over again :’)

@asundrop replied to your post:

nice nice nice nice

that labyrinth meme i can’t be bothered to find. | not accepting.    --- > @awakesforce.

    Had he been asked, laying in a pool of his own cooling blood, staring up at the falling snow as it settled and --- worryingly --- did not melt against his skin, on the surface of a planet he had thought he would join in its death throes...had he been asked, then, if he would ever share the cockpit of a shuttle with the scavenger that brought him that low, he would have flown into a blind rage at the mere suggestion. 

    Perhaps that anger was what he needed, then. Perhaps it would have given him the strength to stand, again. To pull his bleeding body from the ground, to push himself from that prone position, to keep fighting. But he had not had it in him. And so he had drifted, somewhere hazy, in between consciousness and oblivion, and there was death, a creeping thing, a draining thing, a cold, dark, weariness, and there was the Force, and he had thought, maybe, to give himself to it.

    That decision was not his to make. Chemicals, singing through his blood, sending sparks through his synapses, and for some time, all he knew was agony, brilliant, blinding, broken only by brief lapses in consciousness. Someone had been screaming. He thinks it must have been him. 

    White snow had been traded for white sheets, that somehow felt even colder than the frozen precipitation had. Sterile, until he inevitably tried to sit up, split something, and stained them.

    Left to his own devices, he would have mourned, probably, but quietly. He could not, though; not with thousands of other minds pressing in. Their fears, their anxieties, their doubts --- so many people, shaken. And him, ravaged, lost, him, dragged by the tides of too many thoughts, tearing him each in a different direction. Swept along by their grief, he, in his hospital bed, had wept like a child.

    He does not think on it now; he must not. This --- this is the start of something new. This is not the time for grudges or grievances or the aching empty sadness that has settled into the hollowness he carved into himself, a home for all the almosts, all the things he never quite accomplished.

    The path between the stars.

    “A pretty way to declare yourself a traitor.”

    Traitor. The word is devoid of all the venom with which he used to spit it; after all, it applies to him now, too.

    That ache inside of him yawns, a hungry void, a sleeping monstrosity, waiting to swallow him whole.

    “ --- but there are worse things to be.”

    Like what he was. What he is, still, somewhere. What he fears he could become again.

    She looks at him, and he feels bare, feels vulnerable --- she is not touching his mind, he would know. But his mask has been discarded, and without it, he finds he cannot meet her eyes.

    He leaves the controls, and she wastes no time in sliding into his seat to take over. He is grateful that she does not comment on his sudden departure. Even if she did, even if she wanted to call to his retreating back, what name would she use?

    He is not Ben Solo. He is not Kylo Ren. He is a ghost of that boy, of that man. He is a shadow, a wraith, a patchwork of possibilities, of people he never could fill the shoes of.

“Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.”