76,407 notes + 1 week ago
My name is Dream, I am fifteen, and I wish to wake up.
Would you like to walk down the yellow brick road with me?
(Independent OC roleplay blog. Panfandom.)
Would you like to walk down the yellow brick road with me?
(Independent OC roleplay blog. Panfandom.)
Killed things.
are you angry?
Or hungry
What about squirrels.
What did you do
I’d actually figured out what I wanted my last words to my loved ones to be. How best to close and lock the doors and leave them sad but safely behind. And now the Capitol has stolen that as well.
“We’ll write letters, Katniss,” says Peeta […]
Things seemed clear in my head and even when I talked before the crowd, but the words never came out of the pen right.
Katniss will always find something to complain about. If she has to give a speech OH NO, BUT SHE CAN’T TALK TO PEOPLE! If she’s figured out how to talk to people? OH, NO, EVEN THOUGH SHE HAS THE EXACT WORDS SHE WANTS TO SAY, SHE CAN’T WRITE THEM DOWN! Because reasons, okay?
I get it, sort of. Writing is different from speaking, and you can ramble a lot more in person and self-doubt a lot more with a pen. But Katniss doesn’t even try. She’s going to whine about everything, absolutely every little thing, and she’s been doing it so long that I don’t even care. I especially don’t care when she doesn’t even bother to send an ‘imperfect’ letter home. She sends nothing. It can’t be the pretty little speech she had in her head, so fuck you little sister, you’re never going to get any last words from Katniss.
My father believed that if the world found out who I really was, they’d reject me… out of fear. He was convinced that the world wasn’t ready. What do you think?
