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Author Topic: Prompt 2: Grow.  (Read 26 times)

* Feyre Märchen

    (08/31/2020 at 05:04)
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Raidho.
Growth.

In the slow tip of a precariously balanced scale - whether in justice, life or the beyond - everything has its counter balance. There is always something that weighs a little heavier, even if it might be too fractional to be noted by the naked eye. Her unbalanced scale sat beneath the protective cage of her ribs, buried deep deep within the confines of her heart.

The ounces of self-confidence on one side, tiny grains of rice in the case of Feyre Märchen, were outweighed often by the heavy mortar bricks of self-doubt. Since before she grew the confidence to stand and could stumble, unsteady on soft feet, into the first steps of this new life, her internal balance had always swung one side heavier than the other. Credence and faith had not followed her from one old life into the next.

This was her curse.

Self-doubt was the plague which would ravish the wonderful world that was childhood innocence in a girl on the precipice of growing up. Self-doubt would keep her with one foot lingering in the familiarity of childhood, clinging to stuffed toys and wellington boots. All whilst the other edged towards the freedom of what life itself had to offer in friendship, marshmallow kisses and magic.

The girl in question had always understood the sway of her internal balance. She could feel the push and pull as grains of confidence dropped slowly onto the scale, battling to weigh against the gravity of her own self doubt. She battled her sense of self, in spirit and mind, as she tried to force the scale to adjust. Moments of boldness flickered up, and burst through, only to then be shrouded, for hours thereafter, by the anxiety of ruminating on the words, actions, and thoughts of oneself.

Diffidence whispers: should I have said that? I should not have done that. I’m not wanted here. This is what I could have said back to that. Why don’t I speak up? He hates me. She hates me. They hate me. Everyone only tolerates me. I am not enough, not enough, not enough.

Thus, the heavier side of the scale sinks down again.

This left the little girl with one contracting ventricle that pumps innocence and growing strength through her body systematically, whilst the other squeezes anxiety up and into her lungs, until it is breathed out into her world. Until the diffidence is the image presented to the world, and shows only half of her conflicted, unbalanced heart.

iIn utter desperation the little girl sits in a darkened room with tear stains on her cheeks. She takes a thin stick of charcoal to her pale skin. One by one she connects the dots of her freckles and etches a repeating shape. A famliar Nordic rune.


                                


As they mar her skin, she closes her eyes and wills the scale to tip. She wills herself to grow.
SHE WAS
freckles and magic
that girl next door - as we lay with shooting stars - and smiled at the world

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