releasethebattleraven

Sometimes he sees a crow in the mirror. When he convinces himself to look that is. Really look, not just glance at himself long enough to scrape hair back out of his eyes for the thousandth time that day. It’s funny really, how much he’s changed, but not, since he last really took the time to study himself. Somewhere, over the years, he’s left childhood behind, and it has been replaced by the ghost of visible pain. At least to those who know where to look. The way he carries himself, the set of his shoulders, too slight for the image he has of himself in his mind, still hold a bit of that instinctive rigidity that betrays that silent pain, invisible scars. He is a crow among the dignified, glossy, ravens of the world.

Sometimes, he wonders if he’ll ever, really fit in.

Not in an, “I wanna be just like the others,” kind of way. No, it’s a concept closer to “How much can I relax today? Will I ever have a day where I can let down my guard and enjoy the world again? Without expecting hurt from every corner, every passing figure, every new challenge.”

He’s a crow, in a world of those brilliant, beautiful Ravens.

And someday, he’d like to belong.