Alphonse's gradually learned that Ed and Roy are very much a couple- and it's destroying him.
He holds it in and then, one night, -obliterates- the desk he and Ed share in their military dorm, drawing this upon it.
( As equally posessed to do so as I was. )
...All whilst driven by the feelings for Edward and his impossible, albeit repressed and unmentioned, jealousy/posessiveness of his brother.



Everything on here has meaning.

------ Ed and Roy's hands are creating something new ( their romance ) in the form of new life: A tree.
But that same plant/tree branches down and impales Alphonse's armor...burrowing into it and pulling it apart.
Even the flower that's crowding through his helmet is causing damage-
Said flower is missing a petal, and it's hanging out of one of Al's now blank eye sockets- Tear-like in it's placement/shape.
( Can you -feel- the painfully blatant melodramatic emotion? )





Story:

It's late.

Dear Diary,

I've found myself up an hour or two before sunrise and all I have to hold accountable is..

Myself.

That and so many spirals of conscious daydreaming wonderment; much and many of which are not pleasant or malignant either. They just are. Perceptions.

Brother's fast asleep, and as much as I wanted to automatically assume that his breathing and shifting were an initial catalyst to my rousing awake; it's actually pretty lulling. I can never make it past the first vestiges of slumber without those sounds. I guess I've just imprinted onto those oh-so reliable beats of inhale and exhale, that it's become impossible for me to relax, or gain purchase into rest, without them.

It's not his fault, so efforts to 'will him awake' with a silent stare across the dark are forfeited.

I don't truly wish to have him up.
Maybe in fanciful principle, but not reality.
There'd be no way to explain my insomnia, or quell him of his reflexive worry upon it.


I can't voice the reason for it myself.
Except-

Except for half-hearted ideas that keep returning to me.
Unfinished like semi-words; these syllables of fragmented mullings making neither hide nor hair of sense plague me on and on.

Maybe they're more like sketches.
Gestures.
Quick brush strokes in fleeting bits of color that describe impressions of feeling and places and people.

Personal things. Private considerations. Intimate perplexities.



I don't remember where I found the gnarled pencil...
No recollection comes to me on how my hand knew what to do..
But by the first rays of morning-
Just as I'd miraculously mastered the art of ambulatory movement, speech and consumption-

An agonizing new discovery is revealed to have taken me over

And the cost is our desktop, mutilated in a hundred thousand images pulled from my head.

Cryptic
Without solution
But spilled out from heart to head to hand...
Till all three are bled dry.