Hide your little dreams, the ones that mean something. Hide them in the gaps of your memory, hide them in those rose-tinted days you always miss. Hide them in those thoughts you’d never tell. Hide them in people with kind eyes and open hearts. Hide them in the color of your first love’s eyes and the sound of your best friend’s laugh. Hide them behind your lips, in your throat, where you always want to speak them but never can. Hide them away from a world that would rip them away if you let it.
For the longest time, longer than he cared to admit, Rex couldn’t remember what happened on Umbara.
He was told it may have had something to do with Krell messing with their minds before Dogma had killed him. “Jedi can alter memories, hide things and change things, even long after they’ve passed.”
Rex didn’t believe that, or maybe he just didn’t want to. The idea that any remnant of Krell could be crawling around in his head sends beads of cold sweat dripping down his back.
Others accounted it to PTSD. “Things like this can’t be cured with a hypo, CT-7567. It’s something we’ve yet to program out of any living being. Everything and anything can inherently change you, and the mind fights back best by forgetting.”
Rex liked that even less. No matter how terrible, he’d rather remember something than not.
Yet days turned into weeks and he couldn’t piece together exactly what had happened. Bits and pieces came back. Sometimes he’d wake up in the middle of the night, positive that he was under attack. Sometimes he’d have his blaster in his and and the sudden inhibition to shoot it washes over him like a wave.
When he finally does choose to remember, because, really, it was always him holding himself back from remembering, it’s when they’re sending Fives’ body back to Kamino to be processed for its genetic material and turned into more clones.
We’re made from our dead brothers, Rex thinks, and with those words, Umbara comes back.
Did they matter, or were they simply replaceable bits of a larger machine? Were they truly any better than droids?
Yes. He has to keep remembering that. They are men, no matter what.
I wish i can make a record out of your mind, of the thoughts and all the speakings that make me unblind.
I wanna save them, make a memory and hide them deep inside.
Whenever i miss you i can pick them and make my soul dance to their rhymes.
Yes you said it, it made feel too close to paradise, tho i didn’t give you the right reaction, but babe you can say it again while you watch me roll the dice.
As a writer with DID, I’d probably say the most important thing to get down is that DID is a /dissociative/ disorder, not a personality disorder. People with DID have dissociation as a primary symptom, and learning to write a dissociative character would be useful to you in many contexts.
We begun in a drunken haze of mixed emotions and past scars. We were both sunburnt from past ghosts. The temporary fix was available and we believed it would cure our sunburns. Well at least, i believed it would.
I piled back layers of myself- leaving pieces of myself like dry skin. You told me that there could be something in the future. And I stupidly believed you.
Almost as fast as it begun, you were gone. I was nothing- a mere memory. You became a new sunburn. Although, it hurt a lot more than I was expecting. You weren’t ready for me- or apparently ready for anyone of that matter.
Cheap alcohol burnt my tongue as I tried to hide your memory. It didn’t work. I found myself running back to you- tears and broken words. You made fun of me for caring. Our whole friendship circle made fun of me for being sensitive. You all crushed me for caring. Like it was all some joke. You never once stood up for me. You, yourself, were amused with my pain.
A month flew by without talking to you. They all still laughed at me- poking and prompting me to crack again. I pushed you away. I didn’t want to remember the bitter betrayal I felt.
You noticed how I no longer stared at you. That I stopped crying your name. That I stopped drunk messaging you what was on my heart. I hadn’t even come to visit you at early hours of the morning.
Suddenly, a month later.
You kissed me.
My last message to you was wanting an explanation for the kiss. You responded with ‘what are we talking about’. It stung. You never cared about me. It hit me. It didn’t matter how out of line your actions were- you didn’t feel the need to explain yourself. You just wanted to suck me back in. Hurt me all over again.
That’s why I never begged for an explanation. That’s why I stopped saying hey or looking you in the eye.
i’m seeing so much love for rogue one and a ton of rebelcaptain, but has anyone thought about how fucking strong jyn erso is?!? she’s suffered an incredible amount of mental and emotional trauma from a very young age, as well as physical stress/abuse on various missions and in the imperial labor camp. she has had to deal with heartbreak and abandonment and betrayal every day of her life. she was forced to grow up so fast, and she has been hurt so much by people she trusted and found only pain in the cause she fights for. in the film you can see all the need and fear and mistrust in her eyes and in her bearing. in the novelization she is repeatedly described as living in a dark cave in her mind, a place where she hides all the memories and emotions too terrible to face. she has been near death countless times. she is a survivor but she is still so young and so broken. jyn erso, guys.
She’s the forgotten girl in the back of the classroom, always quiet, lost in her thoughts, hiding in her memories. The girl who takes an interest in history, obsesses over it, more interested in personal accounts than what can be found in text books. She reads old diaries, finds friends in people buried in the past like her. She presses flowers into her books. She is the girl who protests the society doomed to repeat its terrible history. The girl writing a blog because her voice is in her head, not something that can come through her lips. The girl who listens, who has to think long and hard before being able to lend a response to a conversation. The girl who never seems present when she’s talking to you, always adrift on some other thought in some other time. She’ll bring up things that happened years ago to get someone in trouble or out of trouble. Her mood depends on what she’s thinking about at the time; when she’s remembering a sunny morning, birds calling to each other, she is laughing and smiling. When she is reading the diary of a soldier, she is often distraught and crying. She is the soul that remembers, even if she has been forgotten.