'til my veins run :. [ tris ] .: red & blue »blitz

[✨ zozo.]

DEACON ST. AMOR
WE COME AROUND HERE ALL THE TIME GOT A LOT TO NOT DO
LET ME KILL IT WITH YOU 'TILL MY VEINS
RUN RED AND BLUE

Walking down the street used to be so easy, never plagued with harrowing thoughts that drill into the back of your skull as you dig your hands deeper and deeper into your pockets. If you hide away long enough, maybe you'll turn invisible. God, that would be a nightmare. To become a nobody you once were, to shrink back into name-calling and frustrating attempts at being right all the time. At least now you are someone - you have friends, you have family, you have respect and skill and loyalty.

But that doesn't stop the nerves twitching beneath your fingertips or gazes sweeping over your shoulder every few steps. Thoughts collide in bursts of confidence and get snatched away with the breeze. You're being followed No you're not Stop worrying You should run No you shouldn't Paranoia is a mental condition characterized by delusions of persecution unwarranted jealousy or exaggerated self-importance typically worked into an organized system-

You breathe. The cracks in the pavement you're about to walk on flash into your memory before you see them, photographs of your past paving the way home again. Logic calms your furiously-wired brain and settles the storm within your head and tames the tiger deep within your chest that roars to run as fast as you can. There is no point in trying to run away from the demons in your head, only to stand up tall and face them head-on. There are perfectly logical explanations for your potentially problematic personality defects, but nothing inside of you can't be cured - even if you have to find a remedy yourself.

Helping others though, now that is a challenge you've faced all your life. And here sits a girl (you can't see her face but you'll bet and hope that she's pretty) that hasn't before, a new exposure the photographs in your head haven't processed yet. A bag spilt open across the pavement, her pencils scattered in the colours of the rainbow against the cement and tile.

You leap forward to help her (at least you think you're helping) and irritability floods your mind and forces arrogance through your lips. Something inside of you ticks and pounces your body forwards towards her side, your mind insisting on matching pictures to reality. "No, no, you're doing it wrong - they go in colour-coordination, not height." Ripping the pencils out of her hands (she's putting them from tallest to smallest but that's not how the box says they should be) you begin to slide them in - red, scarlet, ruby, orange, sand, lemon - "See? Like this."

:. [ ooc ] .:
made this a blitz because let's be honest we never finish threads, hope it's ok?