Farce

I feel lost in myself, the complexity of the the mind that I call mine. I'm torn between choosing me for myself and choosing someone else for myself. I'm torn between feeling what I am feeling and feeling what I'm supposed to feel. Wrong are those who say royalty can afford every luxury, for when I stand at the position of queen, decorum takes greater importance than the essence of me. Like this tree, I want to grow, but how can I grow when I have to choose between my growth and the very hands that provide me water? Maybe this is why kids always emphasize on being princesses, free to be who they are, free to choose love, for being queen gives me everything but freedom, and constantly pushes me to shut my emotions off to be the better person.

When you tend to lose people to Death, there's an uncanny trend that develops in you. Social but reclusive, attached but detached. When there's someone who you think is growing close to you, you inevitably choose to push them away. One mistake, the last straw. This defense mechanism is easy for one to choose, because it looks like it's saving you. You victimise yourself, blaming the wrongdoer and yourself at the same time. You develop a feeling of despair, desperation. You long to be saved. Much like panicking in shallow water, you scream, shout and call for help, when you're all the help you need. You begin to feel like you need a savior, like you have no chance at redemption on your own. That's when it's important to realize, that a relic is a mere reflection of a witch's power, for when she thinks her power comes from the relic, the mere object draws strength from her.