❝because the stars weren't made for you, they're made for us ❞
life and death always met, under the shade of the rusty blue bus stop, as they wait for their rides on opposite ends. they just don't know which one is which.
...
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there are a few instances where lucas thinks he can grasp the ropes of normalcy. the times where the blue ocean ceases to waiver and the gentle serenity found in crystal water is the absolute definition he feels rumbling in his insides. oddly enough, the times he found these patches of misaligned strings were in the strangest situations.
or that's what he's taught to believe. he finds these moments of treasures when he passes by a child whose dulcet sweet smile basks in the glory of the honey sun, or in the way two lovebirds cuddle in their nest on edge of a tipping branch. in the orange leaves that fall on the mainstream, he passes when he goes to the convenience store.
they were fragments of the life that he wishes to be a part of, where his hand fails to reach because he's fallen in the hands of glum and cold. but when he looks at his own hands, they don't even feel like they were his. if anything, they were a sole carrier of a soul with nylon string attached, moved by the puppet master.
he lives in a theatre of masters and players, of dolls and actors. where the shouts are high and frequent. where orders are mere tugs on his nylon strings and he's back on his feet as waves of dread punch him in the face.
the puppet masters—his creators—wage war in the space of warm fireplaces and soft plushies. of everlasting bonds and yellow daffodils. of love and destruction.
and the itching care he has for two sinners were rough and raw. curiosity dwindling for a peek of their thunderous comebacks matched with the fury insults hurled at each other. would they want to see that versions of themselves? their mask removed and the smiles they have for every show he's in, be removed from existence, washed away in disappointment. the crowd, gone, because the puppet masters were too human, too selfish that they'd let the world know their bare faces.
but their selfishness has reached their peaks as painfully loud siren calls are batted and thrown. their puppet left in the shadows of a solitary room, forgotten except by the lifeless dust that wallows its existence.
lucas grabs the white-feathered pillow he had since 3, it was the comfiest pillow in existence. it gave him comfort in the times the shards of heavy glass were thrown, it hid him from the light of dark resentment in his parents' eyes, it wiped his tears when he sees stains of ruby blood on the hardwood floor of their living room. and in those nights, it became his dearest friend that he held on to this day—that shields him from harm.
yet life goes on, the boy has grown, his senses have evolved, and the longing comfort he sought from the soaked pillow was long gone.
the shouts were louder, more painful, more powerful. they overthrew the worth of his fluffy pillow.
and even with his ears muffled, his mouth stifled, and his breathing labored—his heart still hears, "anna!"
