O silêncio do som
e a cor da noite
E o som vem pensar
Muito bem, vem a luz
O silêncio do som
e a cor da noite

o som, o som, o som, o som,
o som, o som, o som, ô som.

vem me tocar
não me chame pra dançar
só foi para te lembrar
de me sempre procurar
vejo rostos, reflexos de noit
na lua

o som

o som

o som

o som

If oceans collide
If the moon crossed the sun
I'm wasting my breath
With no name and no one

Silence of the sound
And the colors of the night
The sound from the thoughts
And the thought from the light.

 

name :: Follia [Ila, preferred]

player :: Shoji [[swall0wtale]]

position :: the Ringleader's daughter
Contotionist // Hand balancer

group :: Asile

Appearance.

I don't ever recall seeing my mother in person. I grew up in a room with four walls that were different colours, in a caravan attatched to my father's. I had a quilt that my grandmother made for me (I don't think I look like her, but it's hard to tell, sometimes) and a song was always in my head-- I don't know where it came from, but it went something like...

Belle
C'est un mot qu'on dirait inventé pour elle
Quand elle danse et qu'elle met son corps à jour, tel
Un oiseau qui étend ses ailes pour s'envoler

So, I think someone, at some point, thought that I was very beautiful. It's a nice thought, but I don't really think it's very true-- I think the only time I'm truly beautiful is when I'm doing what I'm best at-- balancing on my hands. There are many types of beauty in the world. Flawed beauty, like that of the people I live my life with. Natural beauty, like the way the world looked before it turned into a wasteland. And beauty in perfection-- beauty in perfect balance, strength, and grace. I like to think that I'm open to all sorts of beauty, and I'm discovering more of it, everyday.

My father always said I looked like her-- my mother, that is. I don't really know, since the only things I remember seeing of her were beautiful posters from circus promotions across the badlands-- when Asile was still whole. The Great Ciro, as graceful as a leaf on the air, a hawk in the wind, trapeze artist extraordinaire.

I don't think I'm much like her, at all. For starters, I can't fly. My father says I'm not built for it; that I'm built to be grounded, like him.

Secondly, I'd never name my daughter Mistake.

I'm only 5'4" and I weigh about average, even if I look thinner than I should. My grandmother says my measurements are perfect. I'm nineteen years old and I've never had a lover, because there's no one of my species of beauty to fall in love with.

I think I'm in solitary.

Background.

I was born when times were good. But I don't really remember anything, from those days when Asile was whole.

My first memory was of my father telling me about my mother-- about how beautifully she flew and how he had only ever had one with for her: that she would never fall. I think it was that day, also, when I was four, that I started training.

The training was hard, yes, but I think deep down, I wanted it. To be like her. To be better than her. To prove to someone that I wasn't a mistake, even though I knew she'd never really care.

Growing up in a freakshow, you never take a mistake for granted. I think it was probably because of my name that I fit in so well-- it was sort of a kindred sense of belonging. Afterall, here, we were all mistakes, accidents, things nature hadn't intended. My grandmother always told me that I wasn't like everything else here, but I was too young to understand it, really. I get it more, now. I might've been accepted, here, but everyone's thinking it.

I should've gone with her-- them. L'ombra. I don't belong here. But, all in all, I'd rather be here, where I'm loved as an outsider, rather than there, where I'll never ever be good enough.

My father says I should meet my mother, someday, but I don't think it's a good idea. I may not like her, but I still wouldn't want to prove an elder, my mother, so wrong.

I am not a mistake.

Activities.


Sleep.

Practice.

Practice.

Practice.

Bathing~

Socialization.

Performing.
Performing.
Performing.

Failing.
Regreting.
Wishing.
Longing.

... Wanting to fly.

Ideals/Motivations.

I think I just want someone to be proud of me.

Attitude.

Vai, vai bambino vai vedrai, vai

Vai, vai piccino vai vedrai, vai
Vedrai

Dove mancha la fortuna
Non si ca piu con il cuore
Ma coi piedi sulla luna
Oh mio fanciullo vedrai
Vai Vedrai che un sorriso
Nasconde spesso un gran' dolore
Vai Vedrai follia del uomo

Follia

Del uomo senza driturra vai
Follia
Del guerrier senza paura vai
Follia
Del bambino pien' divita
Che giocando al paradiso
Dal soldato fu ucciso
Mio fanciullo vedrai
Vai Vedrai che un sorriso
Nasconde spesso un gran' dolore
Vai Vedrai follia del uomo

Follia

Vai Vedrai che un sorriso
Nasconde spesso un gran' dolore
Vai Vedrai follia del uomo

Follia

Vai Vedrai che un sorriso
Nasconde spesso un gran' dolore
Vai Vedrai follia del uomo

Vai, vai bambino vai vedrai, vai

Vai, vai piccino vai vedrai, vai
Vedrai

Dove mancha la fortuna
Non si ca piu con il cuore
Ma coi piedi sulla luna
Oh mio fancilluo vedrai
Vai Vedrai che un sorriso
Nasconde spesso un gran' dolore
Vai Vedrai follia del uomo