10th Testimony- "A Winter Tale of A Winter Bird"

On a Winter's day, in a dark and musty November, the sun was summoning blood red on the bottom of the dispersed sky. The view form my oak tree showed a gradient blue and white horizon streaming from the purple clouds; light of day, darkness of night, stinging frosted mist behind the murky and gray fog of smoke have chilled my feathered wings. Behind the window, I have overcome the long gone sunshine and heat to watch the coldest winter begin. The death angel of the winter bird passed by my window sill. 

As the other birds flew endlessly in chains, my wings felt frozen. I watched and waited for a ship to sail in circles. I waited for a worm to feed on, but all the live ones were dead, and all the dead ones were alive. I should have froze that day. I should have waited longer for another crow to help me reach the oak tree, but of course who would want to bother and help a flightless cormorant. We are meant to remain not in flight; the others would stray away and they think it is perfectly fine and “normal” that we are stuck on ground. Events within that hour caused me memories in which I wish I never revisited. That hour gave me a breath of fear, poison and cold shudder; A breath of fear from six years ago. I tried to erase it all from my memory , yet it seemed to elaborate and penetrate deeper and deeper into my mind. It felt like a claw of a crow was smothering and scratching my brain from the inside out. Everything was restructuring all over again. The same sense started from phase one. My feet were numb and I could not speak clearly. My eyes began to water and my heart was racing. My wings were shaking and I wanted to call for help, but the fear of gazing into the crows eyes in my head made it more difficult. I could not describe the fear of even sensing the eyes of the crow on me, it seemed as if it was watching me and clawing deeper into my brain. A stream of worry choked me in ways I have experienced before, once I knew that the image of the crow in my mind will not go away. My pulse at a rapid race, anxiety numbing my claws, and the taste of blood reciprocating in my mouth had left me no mercy. No thoughts had insinuated my mindless hoaxes from afar. Countless crows endlessly flied in circles. 

As it has always been to me, all alone, lost, lunging in the lonesome frozen oak tree, I attempted to fly the rest of the way back to my tree on my own. I struggled with each and every step. With the cold breezes stinging my face and drying my eyes, I still made it. I found the old oak tree. Whenever I see it, I know I am home. I am safe and nothing can harm me, despite the soulless bodies in the burials. Life had always fallen yet rose there. The memories. The safety. The hope that built inside. I remembered who I am and where I was at the moment. 

The oak tree always reminded me I can stop this fear. This pain and agony inside of me was just another test in life. Being victimized once was the first test, this was only a re-take, but this time I had passed. For some reason, my first reaction was to try to reach Myron. He was there, like he had always promised me. His promise was that he  would always be there and he would make me achieve a smile a day. However, I cannot depend on anyone anymore. I cannot bother him anymore. It all seems wrong to me, I do not deserve such a gift in life. Life is not meant to bless me with hope, never has it, and neither shall it. I cannot trust, but that is not the point. I cannot trust anyone, not even myself. I can trust memories, but mistakes, are another. The mistreatment is upon the guilt, shame and empathy I hide above all. Pain overpowers the mind, and despite is just the undertaker. 

Haides, I understand I faulted, but why must I suffer as well? If one has wronged, why do I receive every spiteful treatment in front of my beaked and cracked open face? You cannot see deep enough through those cracks can you? Because I really do not think anybody can. It is ugly. I am ugly. Through me is the meaning of ugly. Why does my mind reach such great heights that planets could not revolve around it? Who can reach the sun if they get burned by its flames? I think of all these points, because in the end it is all just a black hole, a warp hole, perhaps. 

I recall several moments very well. But why the does the laughter of madness towards myself cause my own self slaughter? I saw, I came, I heard, and I have looked, but I see nothing with these old eyes. The damage had been found and I do not think I can ever fix it; it is like a footprint on a smoldered stone- neither can it be erased nor washed; the grains of sand left are countless. Haides, give me one reason why I should never fault at heart. One dense and hard soul, that is always left outside to shatter and break in the cold, had fallen from the old oak tree two hundred years ago. 

I am slowly drifting away, for I cannot beseech another human soul. I hold my breath and my instincts are silenced, for I shall nonetheless try not to speak. Hoping my presence does not awaken them, my only friends are the ones who are in front of me. Alone I sit, yet they are still with me, forevermore. 

Laden and Sapphira are still under pressure of the family clashes. Sapphira has to comprehend and react in ways that are more subtle. She must understand that her world revolving around the heart of Laden is just going to involve the heart of a family. The hearts of a family combining with a lover is certainly never an opportunity the door leaves open for us. It is just a tidal wave of typhoons knocking homes down. Yet, I am proud that they are still strong and alive in their relationship. I always have had hope for the two to handle any pitfalls- they always have. They shall avoid scornfully soulless humanity and never should they have to touch under-appreciation, just like I did. I know the sensation, and it is very unrelenting. It feels like a bloodthirsty, cold and pale form of hatred. The feelings withering and searing inside like a burning torch smoldering my feather, piece by piece. My wings are now drifting with fire! 

Myron and Harmonia are still respecting the surroundings. At least I know Harmonia is still my other soul and Myron is still a guardian to me. I know there are times I am silenced, and moments I seem quite guardedly subdued, but this world taught us to struggle and accomplish by hand and not by heart. By soul, not by emotions (that I have lost long ago). As I have clarified before, the inside of Nyx is long gone and dead. Soulless perhaps? 

In these letters, I drain about ninety five percent of every ounce of my quintessential body. I cannot find a risk or a purpose to confess all one hundred, Haides, so here I go writing another blunt and vague letter to you. My apologies, regardless, are written from the heart. This is another testimony I bless thee within all unconsciousness. I dig deeper into the ground to reach that part of my mind. This testimony shall not yet be a farewell, but it shall be one of false hope and surroundings we all must suffer by. This letter is for them to find the purpose of this non-existent soulless values of my tale. This is the tale of a long November, an oncoming December, by a night bird of wintertime. The drifted marrow of the season is whistling. 

 Regardless, 

 Nyx

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Great vision create by the chapter. I like the description of the Winter birds and her thoughts. I like the way the story is going. A understanding of how things can fade away and how we must understand. Thank you for sharing the excellent chapter.
Coyote