birds in the soul

anonymous asked:

Yes Alphys, There are about 600-700 of us. And we are all nerdy potatoes, except for the one with ultimate control over your Timeline, who is a bird. Many of us lack 'Souls'. And we can influence Timelines indirectly with a magic known as 'Magic Anon' or 'M!A', however there are many Timelines in which it does not work. Are you taking notes?

W-whoa!!

[* She’s taken a notepad out of one of the inner pockets of her labcoat and is scribbling rapidly on it.]

Th-there’s so much to take in there… that’s fascinating! 

You must have so much power…

But you’re benevolent too! That’s pretty reassuring, ehehe.

OH, YES, HUNDREDS OF BEINGS OF MYSTERIOUS ORIGINS AND MOTIVATIONS WITH OUR ENTIRE WORLD IN THE PALM OF THEIR HAND. 

VERY REASSURING.

I am used to it.

“Benevolent” is a generous term.

Sometimes hope is a thing with feathers
And sometimes hope is a thing with a snow covered snoot

you use your legs to run from that heart of yours, you use those feelings to write poetry, you use those metaphors to hide something, you use that honesty to be yourself, you use a smile to stop the crying, you use those tears to color the ocean, you use your laughter to fill my lungs, you use your consistency for everyone, you use your life to color in between the lines, you use the loopholes to break the rules, you use those guidelines with a middle finger, you use that voice to sing with the pretty red and black birds, you use your kiss to empty fire into your soul, you use your heart as cupid’s pillow, you use those rug burns to avoid eye contact, you use your lips to taste the liquor that doesn’t lie, you use your body to dance with the drugs, you’re never really high if you’re always ready to die
—  but not tonight
The wet earth. I did not imagine
your death would reconcile me with
language, did not imagine soil
clinging to the page, black type
like birds on a stone sky. That your soul – yes,
I use that word – beautiful,
could saturate the bitterness from even
that fate, not of love
but its opposite, all concealed
in a reversal of longing.
—  Anne Michaels, from Correspondences

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

—  Emily Dickinson, 314