June 19, 2006
What am I expecting? Salvation? That’s nothing but a hopeless dream. I still dream – do I? I don’t know. Everything’s a jumble, darkening chaos hovering above and below, unleashed, uncaged. There are no rules, no paths, no faith, no light. There is nothing but a wall of bricks, steel, stone and blood. Unbreakable. If only… Oh, useless. Stop dreaming, Anne. Cut-wing, remember? Fallen from grace by your own hand. Feel your face, your soul. Emptiness – so why dream?
You can’t blow the clouds away from the sun, for it has left. The skies are black, the horizon faded. The stars – where have they gone? They must shine, somewhere – but not here. Even they have forsaken us. Everything fails, everything falls down to dust. Heart, mind and soul.
Time, the great devourer. Let it fade away, please… I don’t want this. No more pain, I’m too tired. Flames and broken wings do not mingle.
Kill it, please…
May 29, 2006
Vampires. Everything goes downhill from the moment you set foot on their territory. From the moment your eyes rest on a red handprint, marking their dominion with their own blood.
They might welcome you, accept you into their ranks. You can't help feeling grateful, even proud, for they are the tribe with the most powerful reputation in the city. There is no denying that. Lurkers in the shadows, waiting, watching. They have all the time in the world, for in the end, the city shall be theirs.
Should I say we, should I say ours? I was – am? – part of them too; I took part on the hunts, on the trackings , on the markings – on the killings. They – we – are human, no matter what we call ourselves. We breathe, laugh, cry, run, live, love… "Vampires" is just a name, just like Dancer. It doesn't reveal the true self of the tribe. Being a scout, I know this. I am – was? – a spy, a walker of the heights. In the clouds, you see things concealed behind the walls, locked into the minds. The Wildcats show compassion, the Wharf Rats reveal heated hearts. The Cigarettes conceal plottings, the Vampires still love.
Mina cries over a letter, Sven hesitates before a killing. Jim drops the grin when he is alone, Vincent has a love for the sea. Matthew is religious, Cain smiles without noticing. Ruth struggles against her past, Ellery reveals a generous nature. Petyr nurtures a bold determination, Trevor sings lovingly, Maria smiles when she sleeps…
We are human. We still live. We still love.
May 25, 2006
What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.
Why Dancer? That was the name the Wharf Rats gave me. I was able to dance on the sky, they said. I thought the name pretty, in fact. A characteristic of mine – so why not? Simple enough, and maybe it had more to do with me than Anne, Annie and such names as those. They were my old names, belonging to a life prior to all this – to this city, to this world. Marguerite called me Annie; I was her younger sister, her little one. It felt appropriate at the time. But some names fall over time, lose whatever meaning they once bore. Marguerite never stopped calling me Annie, but Dancer is gone now. What use would it be? If it carries old memories you can no longer live, those memories are fated to hurt you. They bring you suffering – and so does the name itself. It feels better to pretend such memories were never there, were never real. Pain and suffering kill you, and so you must kill the name instead in order to survive. You need a fresh start.
The memory of the Sandstorm, of Sand and Storm, will live forever. The sparrows never die; the birds live on on the wind. Yet my cage is down here, where no wind can ever sing. In here, you die. In here, Dancer is dead.
Whatever tomorrow brings…
What will it bring? How can you guess what lies on the other bank of the river, what rests on the other end of the rope you walk on? Do the birds know where they will land, once they take flight? When you set foot on the road, you may end up on a place your mind never expected to reach. Your feet have free will, just like the birds' wings. They choose the path they tread, not yourself. Unless there is something, somewhere, choosing for them as well – but how can we guess it? Is there something larger, something higher, that sets up the path for you? Rough tracks, straight highroads, sunny patches, cloudy skies. The weather is always changing, your mind is everfree. There are no cages which can contain it, for its wings are free and alive. Nothing can change that. That is the only certainty for tomorrow, your mind's freedom. Your body may be locked on a bottomless pit, your eyes may be seared blind by the fires of darkness – yet your spirit is free. Light-borne wings.
May 22, 2006
I truly hate this. These markings. They tear us apart, cry for differences between us, when in truth there are none. Why should we be distinguished for something we are not? Master, Beta, Hunter, Commoner, Omega… Cigarettes, Vampires, Wharf Rats, Wildcats… We are all lost children, all of us. We are equal to one another, we are siblings. The Plague is our mother, the one who gave us birth. She took care of us and made sure we would strive for survival at the best of our capabilities. That survival is lost now – we kill each other, we murder our brothers and sisters. Justice, we call it. Eye for an eye. What does the world gain with this? What legacy will we leave behind when we are gone? Every bird must, one day, leave its nest. Our nest is New Pork. It is enormous, and our mother cares for us without exception. She protects us without preferences. However, the young siblings form groups, factions, wipe each other out without a second thought. No resentments; life must go on, and there is neither the time nor the will to look back.
Master, Omega. Cigarette, Vampire. Blood and fire, wings and ashes. Those signs break us apart, shatter our worlds away from each other. There are scars that cut too deep, and therefore we cry for justice. What is justice, in truth? It does not mend the worlds, does not mend the souls.
May 19, 2006
Our wings have not been taken from us. They are there, sprouting from our backs, invisible to all but those who are one with the sky. They reflect our soul. The innocent have night wings, with feathers darker than the black swan's. The free-spirited wear a rainbow of colors, a joyous multitude of patterns running through their wings like a cascade of butterflies. The ancient have powerful, full grown wings, reaching out like those of an albatross, while the newborn souls still bear the fluffy plumage of young sparrows. Some are faded, almost forgotten; others shine like the sunlight, shedding their wonder to the world beyond the darkness. There are some which flap constantly, almost nervously; others move slowly, the heart of the world on each beat.
We are winged beings. Our wings have never been cut, and never will. Unless we choose to. Our minds have forgotten how to fly, but our souls never forget.
May 12, 2006
My name is Anne White. If you found this diary, it probably means I am dead. I ask you, with all my heart: please, return it to my loved ones. Seek the Golden Arena circus. Seek the White family, the acrobats and tight-rope walkers. Deliver them this journal, and tell them I love them. Tell Marguerite, my sister, that she saved me. She will know what it means.
I have never kept a diary until now. So many things have happened, though, that I feel they should be recorded somewhere. Maybe, in the end, the diaries and journals of all the Children will be the only trace left of us. We are all doomed; even if we survive this city, our lives will be forever affected by the Sandstorm. Its death toll weighted on the world – our death toll weights on us.
I will not speak about the past here; it is dead and gone. Maybe one day, when I can revive it without all the suffering it brings. For now, it is still too recent for me; the pain is still too vivid. We have been through the fires of hell, and I am not sure yet if we will ever overcome them. Some wounds never heal, no matter how hard you try.
Therefore, from my past in New Pork, as we call the city, I will only say I followed the Wharf Rats for a time. Then, I joined the Vampires; I am now part of the Cigarettes. To be frank, at times it gets hard to tell the difference between them, between us.
And then, Axel… I'm afraid. I'm terrified, for I think he is right, even if I do not care to admit it to myself. I do not want to, I will not! He has no right to meddle with my feelings. Not Seraphim. I have every reason to fear him, to hate him, to despise him, and still… Why? Why did Axel have to bring that up? I hate Seraphim. I would throttle him with my bare hands, if I could. And Rattlesnake as well, but Seraphim… He is a traitor. It was his fault, he is the one to blame. If not for him, I would still be in the Cigarettes' cells, true, but at least I would be myself. What he has done I do not forgive. I am tired of following the paths my heart chooses; they bring nothing but pain and lies. It will bring suffering again.
And anyway, it is useless – he still loves Serenity.