I never lived. Never breathed. Never laughed or thought. There's only been lies. Bitterness that I could have never foretold.

My heart is hard like ice. No one has thawed it. No one can ever know the secrets I hold so tightly in my breast.

My father pushed me on this path. Glory it would bring for as long as I lived by the sword. Kissed the sword and held it above all else. But I do not like the sword.

I see past it. The silver blade shining in the sun. My tears stain it, turning it black. I tarnish it, because I must destroy it. Least I become nothing more but a bloodthirsty mercenary.

More than anything in the world I wanted to go to the mountain. And write. Write until all this self loathing was pulled away, write until my father's harsh voice, full of scorn, had been silenced. Until I could not feel the pain in my breast.

I will not live and die by the sword. I will not let you live through me. This is my future my life. And if happiness means I walk on a road of jagged rocks, that only hunger shall be my friend, then so be it.

For I will live the life of a man. A human being. Someone with lusts and passions no worse than anyone. Someone who only wants to reach out and touch the dream in the sky above.