Plurk paste

When she sees Lenalee, she sees a girl who is to be a young woman, able to walk on water and slowly collapsing inward under the weight of the invisible worlds she carries on her steady shoulders. War doesn't leave people with weapons to handles themselves, an irony that only strikes her as she finds she lacks them as well, redirecting nightmares into laughter and tears into the catharsis of humanity, of being human. She wants a happiness, the kind of warmth that lingers in the belly on long nights spent away from everything that matters, the memories that make themselves indelible to etch into the fabric of the girl-cum-young-woman that is Lenalee -- she wants more than the war and the pain and the death that follows, circling like persistent, manic buzzards, to paint the canvas of her friend's life. While she still has one; while she still has room to learn the reasons to laugh and love and embrace the shattered world for all it's rough edges and torn manuscripts, before nothing is left but the bitter darkness that creeps in when Loss is the only memory one recalls as they lay down their head to pass one evening into the next, an unending march of time without respite or relief.