Life is about finding home.
Much is said about growing up, to the commemoration of our achievements, and the vast hardships, and sweet tea moments that bless our lives. We step into the world knowing nothing more than to cry or laugh or poop, and I think, it shows how human we all are. For someone to tend to ourselves. From our limited knowledge, we didn't know who were were. Then, we go from crawling, to walking, and now running. As we run, we have a new need: for someone to hold our hand as we hit every milestone-heartbreaking-joyous wall in our lives.
Through every combustion and every tear, we learn new things: hate, love, envy, thankfulness, reverence, and nostalgia. We grow up a little more, and we become aware of harsher realities...death and misfortune. Struggles, and the dark nights, where your only companion was your salty and soaked pillow case at 2 am. And, in deep remembrance, those murky thoughts pick at the meat in your brain with horrible fingers.
In those moments, the same hands which held your hand in your first steps -- or, that lovely girl from across your locker, who you threw sleepovers with every Saturday, are not there. Your hand is isolated from the universe, and is left to grasp the abyss's voided embrace.
As your eyelids close, and you're left mingling in that cloud of disturbance, all that's needed is one more piece of metal to clasp your ankle, and you succumb to the Devil's gravity.
But, my dear, I implore you to be reborn. Start running again, and no matter what...
Find your home. Not the Devil or anyone else. Find your happiness, and be free. This is why I write.
From the girl who found her way home,
Kaiya.
Story by Kaiya
Timorous |Levi x Reader|
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