(o) you're not the same, you died along the way

SUNJATA

the flood

i'm nothing more than a page unwritten
on the pavement, blowing in the wind

“I know.” Sunjata says quickly, waiting until she breaks off to swallow hard himself, hands trailing across his scarred face to his temple where he applies some pressure for the migraine that’s begun to start. “And I do believe that. Now. Because you’re this upset about it.” And he can see just how upset she is just in the same ways that he is, spewing words back and forth, arguments that go round and round in a circle again.

But he isn’t the same as he once was and all that fire he’d spouted have him closing off, softening, retaining his anger and frustration because he isn’t his father.

So he takes a few steadying breaths, drops his hand from his face, grabs the lantern and starts to decorate the paper he’d applied to the frame with little lines to keep the trinkets he intends to add into a straight line. A creative outlet instead of simply spurning and burning himself out.

He’s learning.

“He has a lot to hear about when he wakes up. I’m not sure how he’ll take it all but you can just… Send him a letter when he does wake up. See when he wants to meet, maybe.” He suggests, his voice accented and flat, long forgetting the banshee that stands in the corner of their quiet spot of the Oasis.

And suddenly, Sunjata wonders if perhaps the Oasis is simply cursed to him.

you win a lot, and you lose
just a little bit more than you gained in the end