Deep waters. They paint with the palette of sorrow, sorrow and anger, anger and remorse, remorse and emptiness. It's cold, but not akin to ice, more like an embrace. The embrace of something tragic, something past comforting, something hollow. The hug of a mother, one who turned a blind eye. The hug of a father, that never came. The hug of a friend, who never really was. The hug of a sister, who sparked a trail of deep green. Water, a force of life, a vital one. Those endless currents and wallowing waves, trapping words in his throat. Of course, he could speak, he could scream, he could send his booming voice through mountains and stars. But he doesn't, he is silent. He isn't a mute, he never was, he simply learned to shove his words down with all the force his weary frame can muster. It's a cruel melody, forever whispering in his ear. Thus, he sinks into the cascading whirlpool, yearning for some savior, yearning for infinite isolation. His flesh is but a mangled map of scars, not battle scars, as some would put it. No, his are made from oceans and forest fires. Really, his entire being is made from them. He is the forest, the fire, but above all, he is the observer. The one who stands, frozen, blazing flames reflected in his eyes. His eyes are water, though it doesn't leak anymore. Scalding fire stares back from numbing floods, boundless voids. He runs, but not from the fire, nor the waters, rather pushes his body until his breath is gone, further into them. There's hardly a point to holding him, for his frail, frozen heart couldn't stand it. Broken wouldn't be the word to describe him, because broken implies that something was ever whole.
