[attr="class","stappbody2"]

[attr="class","stappbody3"]

hello.

i see you watch and go

light has always been a curious concept to you; it flickers at the edges of your vision. would it be more correct to say that you see because of light or that you see light, as if it's an object, something to be noted and considered. is light worth anything? you almost want it to be, bottled jars of sunlight that you sip in between cookie crumbs of cosmic dust.
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yes. you do wish that it was material, tangible, able to be seen and felt like the pulsating dark line on a silkworm's back.
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it's a quiet admission, something that you prefer to keep hidden in the vestiges of your mind, lest it be heard by voices that you would much rather shield yourself against. better to go silent than to be found screaming.
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but, you think quietly, reaching up to brush your fingers against the warm dust accumulating on the cream-colored wall, the air dry and laden with the smell of vanilla, that what you want isn't quite possible yet. the dust finds its way onto your fingertips, and as you brush off your hands, fragments of gray litter the english chestnut floorboards. you pay it no mind.
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i know you can hear my voice

you don't look up as you hear footsteps walking into the door, blond head bent over a book. your fingers finger the edges of the pages, and you can feel a sting building. a paper cut. you pay no mind to it. your dad's come home-you can tell that from the careful rise and fall of his steps, the weight making the floorboards creak and the careless display of casual power that he has in physical strength.
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your mother is resting in the living room, and you're tucked into the study in a wooden chair, legs curled up close to your chest as you read voraciously about past witches and their accomplishments. your parents are witches, and so are you-you've heard of their coven, the helios knights. you're young enough that you don't quite know what it means or what it stands for, simply just understand that it's something, a larger whole, that your parents are part of. and because of that, a large part of you wants to go there, too.
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the noises grow louder, the fabric of your father's dark gray coat rustling as he approaches. you unfold your body quietly, careful to not make a sound, and finish crossing your legs as he steps in, the door opening with a quiet woosh. to him, it must look like you've been reading, seated properly, and he blinks in quiet approval, which you could care less for as you grow up. at the moment, however, it's like a trickle of cool water against warmed skin, and you look up, smiling at him cheerfully, cheeks flushed pink with the sunlight.

don't walk away

there is a time where your parents are like dead weight. your fingers ache with the attempt to not carve scratches onto the wooden table with your fingernails, but you fake a smile and relax, leaning back and crossing your arms. when your hands leave your skin, there are crescent-shaped indents that remain, making you frown briefly before your expression smoothes out.
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your mother prattles on about whatever ridiculous topic she wants to, doubtless embarrassing your family. though she's brilliant with words, she's a terrible people-person. she can speak eloquently, but has no idea about people's personal boundaries. your father is the opposite.
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you like to believe that you are the medium, the in-between. what had once been admiration and the naive belief that your parents were perfect had melted into molten indifference and disdain. you care for them, you suppose, but in the dutiful, resigned way that you should, not want to. your affections scrape past the mark for "proper family relationship" and no more-and anyone who says otherwise should be automatically corrected. you are the offspring of your parents, the best of both, and they are...
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what you think of them is far beyond what others do. you think them foolish and silly and immaterial, old-fashioned and almost antique like ugly pieces of furniture littering the ground in the house. you despise them for more reasons than that, however-their pursuit of making their son successful and happy in their next life had become almost too tiring, making you exhausted and weary of their uncompromising demands. a spark will only burn for so long before it burns out, and while you flatly refuse to entertain the thought of you falling from whatever mental pedestal you've erected, the saying still holds true.
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your refusal won't make you any less likely to run out of energy and patience and motivation and your will, falling to the ground like a glowing star. maybe, though, refusing your parents will. you don't want to act the same way, go through the same motions of studying what you love (loved?) until all your passion for it burns out.
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it's a better plan than nothing, at the very least.

come daydream with me

you end up joining silvertongue, not the helios knights. maybe you should have, in hindsight: but silvertongue is fascinating, enthralling. you're left behind-in this new environment, you're an unknown, a variable that doesn't stay constant. you've broken away (even if it's just by a tiny bit, a tiny fissure and crack in the perfect white statue of who your parents want you to be because they think you'll be happy, of all things, that way) from your parents' mold.
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this, at least, is in your control. and you observe, with some glee, that control is something that you would be hard-pressed to relinquish.