#winterstide

I try to be good, to remember the person that I once was when I was still a daughter. I was a social butterfly then, fluttering about without a care, dancing from sunlight to moonlight respectively. But now, all that I have is the moon. It is harder to socialize during the night. There aren’t as many souls milling about as their are during the day. But then, they aren’t married to the night as I am, at least not most of them. I know that there are a few of us out there; night owls who prowl beneath the stars when we feel most alive. But living here, on this island, it isn’t the same. Somehow this place caters more to the lovers of light than the lovers of the night. But there are a few–mortal as they may be–who I have met and have befriended, and they promised to “keep in touch.” Danial is a delight. I invited him to my first Feast Party since waking. He seemed reserved at first, unsure of how to behave with it being just the two of us. However, I assured him that sometimes the most intimate of parties were the best. And it was because of the intimacy of the party that I was able to get to know him all the better. He taught me how to dance ~ Angarika Goyave seems nice enough. And she thinks highly of my “new” property and says that, if allowed, she would like to take a look around. I asked if she would like to assist me in clearing the rest of the property of the brush and the bramble, but she claims that such a task is beneath her. Thus I am left to till and toil on my own, though I don’t mind. Or, at least, not too terribly. I enjoy the work. What’s more, I will enjoy the fruits of my labor when all is said and done, hopefully come the spring. I have weeded and I have seeded, and so long as I have done right by this land, the land should do right by me. Although, I am already quite fed up with the only bathroom in the house. That will have to be rectified soon. The pipes are old and worn, and I’m tired of tending to the plumbing as often as I already have. I complain and yet I am happy. After all, I believe that, had my parents survived, they would enjoy bringing life back to the home as much as I am. I miss them.

I've employed a local architect(?) to take a look at my home. I want a more open, more welcome entryway, and I think that a little remodeling could stand to be done. I'm also considering hiring a designer. I've been told that that is ideal for brightening up dreary spaces nowadays, and that a good designer could potentially bring out the charm that my families home is remembered for. I wonder if he will approve...? Or will he scold me for changing things? For not leaving them as we remember them. We made such fond memories here, and for those I am grateful... But there are also the nightmares, the time I look forward to painting and polishing away. Brighter colors, colors that pop! I've seen such lively colors just in the summer sky--and I wish that I could capture them and put them to paint immediately! But, of course, it isn't that simple. I've begun work. I'm reviving my families nectar making--what our home and family was known for. How we brought our own touch of prosperity to the island. It would be beautiful to grow the fruit out in the open again, for all eyes to see. But I believe the land might be barren where we used to grow our crop. So I'll keep to the greenhouse with my produce, and I plan to bring life back to the rear of the property in other ways, come the Spring. I so look forward to the Spring!

I've fallen into a routine already. I get up, I bathe, I dress, I--eat... And then I got to work on the grounds; gardening and weeding. And there is where I spend the majority of my night, away from curious eyes, kind and curious words and--other menial distractions. I talk to Mirror. Though, what good is that when he is as sheltered as I am, if not worse? But he is kind, and he keeps me from getting too lonely. But, I suppose, I should make an effort to be more social. To attempt to fill these halls and walls with lighthearted laughter...But what good is the laughter if I do not feel the mirth within my soul? I know, it's silly, I'm being silly. It was many years ago that my family was taken from me. So many years ago that I slept my pain away... But at the same time, I feel as if it happened only yesterday. Sometimes the pain still feels fresh and new, and I fight the urge to hide myself away again and to let the house fall into greater disrepair than it already has. I suppose I should be grateful, that there was an attempt at love filling these empty walls while I slept. But there is so much sorrow and pain that it forced what little happiness that tried to work its way inside away. But I won’t let that happen again. Both these walls and my soul could not bear another break.

It felt strange waking up to silence. To the lack of feet up and down the halls. To the lack of familiar, sweet smells coming from the kitchen... To the lack of comfort that only my childhood bed could give to me. I could recall the sound of his voice--the one who had made me what I was, what I am today. I could remember the tone that sounded soft as velveteen or silk, sliding into my ear as he spoke softly to me, words of comfort and reassurance... He had told me that I would be alright, that everything was as it should be. That he had brought me here for safe keeping, and that safe was how he would keep me until the time was right. But what time would that be, I wondered, as I pulled myself off of the cold alter he had kept me on and I took a look around. Though his voice remained, more so in my head than in my ear, there was nothing else that I had to cling to save for my fear. And I was afraid. I was afraid of leaving the room--the tomb that had become my haven for--god knows how long. But I had been here long enough, passing the time, in between sleep, with reading to keep my mind sharp. Or, at least, little more than dull. And so I pulled myself up, and with what strength I could muster, pushed open the hidden door, and I dragged myself out into the new world. My home... The home that belonged to my family. It was nothing at all how I remembered it. It was dull and decrepit... Falling apart, and so very dark and--lonely. There was this overbearing sense of loneliness that lurked in every hall and lived in every corner... The grounds were in shambles, overtaken by brambles and dry brush. All of the trees had long since died and decayed, and the hedges were mere ghosts of their former glory. It saddened me, broke my heart, really, to look upon this place and remember it as it was. And I wondered, would it ever resemble the happy place I once knew it to be?

I was 18 and I was attending a filmmaking workshop. I had wanted to cut my hair short for ages at that point. One day we were filming and I remember almost feeling physically sick after seeing how big my hips were on camera. I sat down and googled “is being a woman a curse?” and stumbled on a webcomic about a trans guy (this one, in fact!) How did you first realize? Comment in the tags below, or send me an ask/answer!