What's The Plural On That?

Settle down, nerves. The time will come. Emancipation is trying to rear it's head, yet strangely denied from the closest sources. All that you've lived for is in this moment, is it going to take something so minute in detail and thought to drag you back down? Is that all you make of it? Given all the shows you've let drift into the background, or let slip through a gently clasped fist, there will be a time for fruition. There has to be that, surely?

Bad thoughts can permeate, and hold you to the floor, until nothing more than a sodden sponge remains. Waiting to dry out once more. Wanting to fly. We're not quite airborne yet, but we're gently hovering, an inch or two from obscurity. A scald hurts for a time, but slowly heals to leave nothing but a scar. How many scars does it take before no one can recognise you anymore? I think we've got a few more left in us, but just because we can become unknown and bounce back from it... does that mean we should?

Questions abound as we invent words that sound like they should exist. Demnity be damned, you're mine now, and I look forward to seeing you quiver with excitement on the eve of your first mission. You'll do fine, just avoid the cages and roam free - we're hovering, remember, it'll take more than a cage to stop you.

Blood seems to be running thinner these days, some days too thin to keep the engine going. But fumes can be as good as fuel, if the intent is pure, and you hold steady to what you know. And maybe an idea is enough to get you through. And we'll burn bright at the endgame, because although we didn't reach the finish line, we stayed the course.