raxeira [on hold]

r a x .

"everything is blue, his face, his hands, his jeans." 

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i was what she called a child of Ahti. i remember those words coming from a little kid, her little voice that carried euphoria and dreams with it. even back then, her detachment, her aura of immortality, was already present; she was a little Siren. she could tell me to sleep forever and i would follow her into blessed darkness. oh, the little girl, the little raxeira, could weave stories and worlds and galaxies with a single breath. she gave every lost soul she met a little pocket of goodness to imagine a blissfully false and transient infinity, because she understood every lost soul. for she had lost herself in her multiple images that without them, you'd find nothing but helium, rising up toward an uncertain horizon. or perhaps she had tried on all the skins she could find because she wanted to know everyone's unique stories. she wanted to know how it was like to be in everyone's shoes. and her pursuit to understand everyone, to wear everyone's stories on her face and to remember everyone's lives in her shell of a girl, in the limited mortal brain, had a price. she lost who she was, in order to remember everyone else.

she was an immortal, trapped in a child's body.

we are all monsters, clothed in docile skins.

"you are a sad picture, painted blues and gray," she had told me when we first met. "you are a sad work of art, painted three time."

i can admit that i was confused. we were in the fifth grade, and what drew me to her was her eyes of broken glass. they were very old, as old as a goddess'. they did not belong on her angelic face. they were shattered, heavenly orbs that had fell from nirvana and became casings for her eyes.

she looked at me with those eyes of broken mosaics as if she were reading my fate, as if she could read my soul from just a single glance. like light cutting through skin, her eyes burned themselves into my brain, branding them into my optic nerves. these are the eyes of the offspring of Atlas, i remember thinking. this is a girl who carries on the job of Atlas, holding the burdens of everyone on her flimsy, young shoulders. and yet, she volunteered to take his space. she chose to take the sky in her hands.

it is never a good idea to believe you are more than a mortal.

"you were born with bad luck," she hummed, eyes cutting deep into my gut. it seemed as if she were exploring every artery, traveling along every nerve skimming across my flesh and skin. it were as if she were a virus, infecting one cell, spreading it along quickly. "you were raised with bad luck. and bad luck follows you like your shadow, child of misfortune. it is your best friend, your only constant." she hummed some more, musing, her shattered eyes gliding along my skin as if she couldn't see watery outward illusions, but only saw the hearts of people as who they were. "you carry misfortunes like little gadgets or trinkets you can't shake off. it's rooted in your soul, poison ivy tied around your fate. it sprouts like a weed, but pulling it out won't do the trick. you would have to destroy your soul to root out the bad luck."

she left. "of course, you and i are the same," were her parting words.