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Literature Text
I almost feel like I don't quite have the right to use the word Hüshwa, I guess? Like, maybe if I were more truly a part of their world and always had been, maybe if I didn't have red blood mixed in with the air-made-liquid in my veins, I'd have more of a right to claim the language and people and culture as my own. Which, they are. They've never excluded me from anything, ever. But by virtue of my relative solidity, my mother, my home-on-the-ground...there are just some things I can't do. Some ways I'll never be a part of the Wind People.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm punishing myself for not being what I want to be. I can call myself a Wind Person and feel okay about it. But I can't call myself a Hüshti, not without a trickle of guilt, a sense of farce, oozing down into my stomach.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm punishing myself for not being what I want to be. I can call myself a Wind Person and feel okay about it. But I can't call myself a Hüshti, not without a trickle of guilt, a sense of farce, oozing down into my stomach.
Literature
6-4-14
We stay at a hotel in the middle of somewhere-nowhere, Illinois, small-town-almost-no-town-at-all. If you trek a half-mile in that direction you'll find a sort of main street. Most of the shop buildings are for rent, storefronts stand empty and dark, ceilings inside collapsed, some species of scattered lesser temples, innumerable ages ago discarded.
I walk long miles by night or day down empty railroad tracks, the tracks of passing writers, painters, engineers, coal, hydrochloric acid, freight. The rail guards riding last cars wave in passing and leave me on my way. Gravel and porous fossil-like cement rocks crunch at every step.
Peop
Literature
A Wind Rises
A wind rises
And, in it,
Life spreads its wings.
Ten years of good
You are promised in your life.
Ten years of love
And of living.
But with wind comes change,
And your ten years will pass.
Happiness can die
Into sorrows again
If that life is ever forgotten.
So let the wind blow you
To a ten years of life
That you promise you will keep and remember.
Literature
Jareth's Dragon Adventure Ch.17
Sarah and Jareth took a walk in the gardens chatting about the past and present. The moon was full and the leaves rustled as they walked together.
“ Armel’s father is a wonderful king and father, I knew him when I was very little. My father used to take me to court with him and me and Armel would play together.” Jareth said walking towards a fountain with a phoenix rising in the middle. Sarah listened to Jareth talk and was amazed at how easy it was to talk with him now that she was older.
“ Sarah there is something going on here in the underground and it’s not good. The kingdoms are being attached by demon do
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Poor Sky. He really is a playful person, but it's his pensive moments and his internal pain that come through the loudest and call for me to write them.
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He's still working to determine exactly what he is and where he fits in the world - where his ethnic buoyancy is, as it were? This reminds me of a number of posts (I think you've reblogged, for the most part) about issues kind of like this. Who has the right to certain titles, and who decides those things? How does an individual determine their own identity, especially when the primary pressure for that is internal? Interesting stuff, and I appreciate getting this more serious side of his psyche!