Penning furiously into the night, sit a man, who by all accounts, is a young lad, but as worn of mind as that of an elder; night takes its toll as he break his tool of trade as of the moment, muttering a low curse, unheard and best left as such.
He pauses, holding his broken tool in his hand, then lays it aside gently, for thoughts of times since, invade the moment of serenity; they always come back to him when he all for himself - guilt, in all it's various forms.
It is true one should not put blame upon themself for things beyond their control, things of which is many, such as blood.
But the use of blood? Proves little of what you can and will do; unless it is compelling, like a siren in the night, which make it something; blood is a word for family, but family is not blood, for it is untrue and wrong; blood only knit together the enchantment of the black or white working of men and women, who trust blood rather than family.
And if true, it make all vast lines reliant on blood, foolish or tyrant.
Foolish, for relying on it. Tyrant, for using it as a knot. A conclusion stumbled upon endlessly.
But what if family come outside blood, what of it? It does not seem to wash away the stain of blood that claim bond, when mere tool of the knitting.
Wishful is the child, resentful is the elder. Reversal also hold true. More so than former.
Roads sigh, dust settle. I will stir it once more. The elder claw at what will never be his; proud as I, but pride in what is not to last.
Such is it to be, and so I will leave it to be.
A collection of thoughts
