Because, if you could love someone, and keep loving them, without being loved back . . . then that love had to be real. It hurt too much to be anything else.
A naked blade hid nothing, feared nothing. She wanted to be like that. Because that was how you found yourself, created yourself. You didn't hide. You didn't wait for the perfect moment to settle on you like a butterfly, like
You couldn't hide from bad things and pretend they didn't exist–that left you with a dream world, and dream worlds eventually crumbled. You had to face the truth. And then decide what you wanted.
It's her ability as an artist to see possibility where others see a blank page and, by extension, to see victory where others see certain defeat that truly empowers her...
Art is a kind of magic. Creativity is mysterious, even to artists, who might be able to name their inspiration but can't always explain how their influences and experiences came together to create this new thing- this painting, this story, this song. If you break art down to its base elements, there's nothing miraculous about the letters of the alphabet or a drop of paint. But an artist can put those elements together to create something powerful, something that moves us and withstands the test of time. A work that no one but that artist could have imagined, let alone created.
We live vicariously through stories, because our own lives provide so few opportunities for high-stakes adventure and noble sacrifice.
Art is magic, and art is powerful. Art saves lives- I really believe that. It gives us courage and compassion we might not have on our own.
Birthdays were wretched, delicious things when you lived in Beau Rivage. The clock stuck midnight, and presents gave way to magic.Curses bloomed.Girls bit into sharp apples instead of birthday cake, chocked on the ruby-and-white slivers, and collapsed into enchanted sleep. Unconscious beneath cobweb canopies, frozen in coffins of glass, they waited for their princes to come. Or they tricked ogres, traded their voices for love, danced until their glass slippers cracked.A prince would awaken, roused by the promise of true love, and find he had a witch to destroy. A heart to steal. To tear from the rib cage, where it was cushioned by bloody velvet, and deliver it to the queen who demanded the princess's death. Girls became victims and heroines.Boys became lovers and murderers.And sometimes... they became both.
It seared her senses; it made her feel alive, even as it sucked that life away - and she kept coming back to it, again and again. Waves of sensation pulled her under - drowning her. But Blue made drowning feel like the loveliest thing. Like she was losing her breath, but she didn't need it, didn't want it, only wanted him.
He kissed her lightly on the nose, and she laughed. Blue eyed her with faux seriousness. How was that? Any weakness?No. But I don't think there would have been anyway.Well, then, how about this? His lips brushed hers, his mouth teasing her lower lip, and her eyes closed and she shivered as his fingers caught her hair. And then suddenly, there wasn't any space between them. The sensation of drowning was there, but it wasn't like her strength was leaving her. It was like she wanted to be part of him. Like she didn't know or care where she ended and he began.When they drew apart, she whispered, No weakness.Really? he said. 'Cause I'm feeling a little weak. She felt him smile against her mouth. And they both laughed, shook with it. Their faces were too close, noses and cheeks pressed awkwardly together, but neither one of them moved. She tightened her arms around him, and he held her just as tightly. His breath murmured against her cheek.You're safe with me, Mira. And I'm safe with you.