Death is immortality.
Death is your second chance.
Velian Terrashine belongs to a classless society of equality, art and democracy; a land full of creativity and mindfulness. It is in that perfect political system that one wrong movement, one carele...
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COUNTLESS WERE THE DAYS I'd spent on my bedroom's floor, countless were the nights that staring at the ceiling had somehow seemed more important than closing my eyes and letting myself taste the sweetness of sleep.
The journal I'd always tried my hardest to fill up with meaningful poems and stories, awakening words of wisdom and in-depth analyses of classical pieces of art was still blank, its pages swarmed by dust. Only the first page contained my failed attempt at poetry, my last effort at discovering one secret talent in order to enrich my life with a passion that revolved around art. I still remembered the look on Josh's face when he'd taken the journal in his hands, a cold grin lingering on his thin lips, his eyes narrowing slightly to discern the letters.
He'd remained silent, searching for the deeper meaning, searching for something thought-provoking behind the similes, the allegories and every word. I'd opened my mouth to remind him to take a moment to sit back and just enjoy what I'd written instead of analyzing and scouring for something life-changing, but then, I'd decided to clamp my mouth shut and wait for him to say something.
Studying his face, I'd known before he'd even lounged in the armchair of my bedroom that he hadn't found it as good as he'd expected it to be, as good as his own poems. And when he'd said that one line had reminded him of another poem and started talking about everything else but what I'd written, I'd promised myself to never again act like I was intrigued by his art. Especially, when I hated the way his voice changed every time he would recite his poems; when I didn't even enjoy them.
Our relationship had started with wishes of eternal love upon shooting stars and sleepless nights by the ocean. These were the days I'd thought that life could be tolerable, pleasant even. We would walk around the city and talk about everything; we would bathe ourselves in the holy waters of the ocean in the middle of the night and then turn my bedroom into an alternative form of heaven. In these moments, we'd become the masters of our private kingdom.
When he'd first started writing poems about me—about us—I could swear that my heart had been painted the softest colors of spring. When we'd started doing everything just for him to gain inspiration to write more, our empire had started falling apart. Our once dreamy castle had disappeared from the map of our hearts' country, the moment I'd realized that he cared more about his art than about me.
Tapping a finger on the journal, I took in the bright pink color, the golden stars that were sprawled on the cover and then locked it again in the last drawer of my nightstand.
The sun had risen a few hours ago, birds were singing their anthems from the trees outside my bedroom's window, and I forced myself to follow Mom's advice. She'd come in my room yesterday evening, outright concern written on her face and had bombarded me with questions about what had happened between Josh and I, why he hadn't come over in a while.
I'd told her everything, as I always did. I'd told her about the night of the Summer Festival and my dispute with Josh. I'd told her about the drawing and the purple-haired man. And she hadn't taken her stare away from me; she hadn't changed the topic of the conversation to make it revolve around something lyrical and poetic—like Josh would do. She'd just listened, because she actually cared.
