To truly cherish the things that are important to you,
you must first discard those that have outlived their
purpose. To get rid of what you no longer need is neither
wasteful nor shameful. Can you truthfully say that you
treasure something buried so deeply in a closet or drawer
that you have forgotten its existence? If things had feelings,
they would certainly not be happy. Free them from the prison
to which you have relegated them. Help them leave that
deserted isle to which you have exiled them. Let them go,
with gratitude. Not only you, but your things as well, will
feel clear and refreshed when you are done tidying.
There was no longer any reason to exist in the world.
And yet, in certain melancholy moods, I felt forgotten. I’d fallen out of her thoughts. There was no longer any reason to exist in the world. I softly repeated the word mamma a hundred times, until it lost all meaning and was only an exercise of the lips. I was an orphan with two living mothers. One had given me up with her milk still on my tongue, the other had given me back at the age of thirteen. I was a child of separations, false or unspoken kinships, distances. I no longer knew who I came from. In my heart I don’t know even now.
Reklam
In the Crimea, Tolstoy also recovered his earlier aim in life — the ideal of virtue — which had been long forgotten because of the temptations of military society. He now decided at the age of twenty-seven that it would be his purpose in life to found a new religion corresponding to the development of mankind: ‘the religion of Christ, but purged of beliefs and mysticism, a practical religion, not promising future bliss but giving bliss on earth’.
Long Live the Queen
Not an official throne—just a larger, finer chair that had been selected
from the sad lot of candidates.
Darrow, too, stared toward the open doors, face impassive. Yet his
eyes glowed.
The trumpets rang out.
A four-note summons. Repeated three times.
Pews groaned as everyone twisted to the doors.
Behind the dais, hidden beyond a painted wooden screen, a small
group of musicians began playing a processional. Not the grand,
sprawling orchestra that might accompany an event of this magnitude,
but better than nothing.
It didn’t matter anyway.
Not as Elide appeared in a lilac gown, a garland of ribbons atop her
braided black hair. Every step limped, and Rowan knew it was because
she had asked Lorcan not to brace her foot. She’d wanted to make this
walk down the long aisle on her own two feet.
Poised and graceful, the Lady of Perranth kept her shoulders thrown
back as she clutched the bouquet of holly before her and walked to the
dais. Lady of Perranth—and one of Aelin’s handmaidens. For today.
For Aelin’s coronation.
Elide was halfway down the aisle when Lysandra appeared, clad in
green velvet. People murmured. Not just at the remarkable beauty, but
what she was.
The shape-shifter who had defended their kingdom. Had helped take
down Erawan.
Lysandra’s chin remained high as she glided down the aisle, and
Aedion’s own head lifted at the sight of her. The Lady of Caraverre.
Then came Evangeline, green ribbons in her red-gold hair, beaming,
those scars stretched wide in utter joy. The young Lady of Arran.
Darrow’s ward. Who had somehow melted the lord’s heart enough for
A Silent vow
He had been hunting for her since the moment she was taken from him.
His mate.
He barely remembered his own name. And only recalled it because
his three companions spoke it while they searched for her across violent
and dark seas, through ancient and slumbering forests, over storm-swept
mountains already buried in snow.
He stopped long enough to feed his body and allow his companions a
few hours of sleep. Were it not for them, he would have flown off, soared
far and wide.
But he would need the strength of their blades and magic, would need
their cunning and wisdom before this was through.
Before he faced the dark queen who had torn into his innermost self,
stealing his mate long before she had been locked in an iron coffin. And
after he was done with her, after that, then he’d take on the cold-blooded
gods themselves, hell-bent on destroying what might remain of his mate.
So he stayed with his companions, even as the days passed. Then the
weeks.
Then months.
Still he searched. Still he hunted for her on every dusty and forgotten
road.
And sometimes, he spoke along the bond between them, sending his
soul on the wind to wherever she was held captive, entombed.
I will find you.
I, too, am a piece of exploding computerised fruit.
That is the extent of me. Here one moment, only to be pulverised into a spray of sweet nothing the very next. Obliterated. Forgotten.
Reklam
Reklam