pelican wish

No. 

　　The answer was no:

　　　　　he could not stand himself. 

He couldn't stand the way his hips curved in all the wrong ways, the sharpness of his shoulders, and the unmistakable bones protruding where he would rather be soft, ethereal, something kinder than the shape he'd been given. He wanted something else, something more. He wanted (more than anything) to shed this hideous shell, lay waste to it and rip apart his outer seams until there was nothing left but the quivering light that wasn't innately his own. A vulnerability he ignored for so long, cast aside for a facade of confidence and hell, it worked. It was working and no one was any wiser for it.

Except he didn't want it to work when his greatest desire was to set fire to this hell of self and start over, be reborn from the ashes anew and to embrace that quivering flame he tried to smother for so long.

But no. The answer is no: this was not just about gender.

As if he could chain these feelings in something so narrow a scope.

He wanted ( more than anything ) to be free. 

To be young and old and forever and infinite in his youth and wisdom, to live and to roam with a pelican pen, to script the perfect never-ending story and to take his heart and bury it oh-so deep into those words and all the lives he could have lived where no one could touch it, where it could never, ever break.

It was something that could never be.

Something crushedkilledbroken by the simple institutions of existence, of mortality because he wanted to be more than human, wanted to experience more than the pathetic life he had and he wanted to break this cage and shatter the lock so he could never, ever return.

So, yes. 

　　 The answer is yes:

　　　　　He wanted oblivion. 

　　　　　　　　( more than anything. )