Cloud Strife (fighting_strife) wrote,
Cloud Strife

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Entry 001

How many cities will be destroyed to end everything? How many people have to be sad at the loss of someone close to them before it will stop hurting? How much mako concentration does it take to burn away memories of the past?

How long has it been since the world nearly came to an end? How did everyone actually fair in that time of need and desperation? How did everyone truly good… get Geostigma and some of them just pass away?

When will the madness end? Will it ever end? Is there any hope in this world? Or are we all just single drops of water in an endless sea?

Cloud peered down at the fine script that his hand had laid across the dirty pages, the wind that whistled around him trying to grasp at the paper and take it from his gloved hands. Each gust rippled the pages , causing them to lift in one part and depress in another then the air moved to caress the paper as if to comfort them back to consider freedom. Yet, his one thumb had curled over the paper to hold it from getting perfect freedom and flying to the dust-filled skies.

The same dust that coated his clothing also clung to his pale cheeks, giving him a little more colouration than normal. He had been away from home so long, away from his family. The dirt of sitting too long on a windy desert flat was mostly crusted onto one side of his face, coating his blonde eyelashes that didn’t close enough to remove the particles that tainted his normally perfect vision. Still, he didn’t move himself to shelter.

He should go home. His deliveries were finished and the broken city known at Midgar loomed over the next hill and down the straight road. He had made the trip many times. He had had to stop this time, to get down the questions that muddled his brain up. Once they were out, he would be free again for a little while and hidden once more, safe to take care of his adoptive family.

His hand moved one last time over the flapping paper, the pen tip pressing hard enough to keep it from moving away from him. The ink smeared the dirt enough that black marred the once clear sheet just below where he had been writing previously.

There’s someone in my head… and it’s not me.
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