"Do you have a dream?" Constance gazed at the writing that haunted her as it drew her thoughts and took it wandering to that year, when youth was alive and yellow was the color that signified dreams. The year when hearts were beating and dum was the sound of the sweat that beat within the veins. "Do I have a dream?, maybe, maybe not." Dream is a luxury I wish I still have, an echo from my depths saying I'm still alive. Oh how I wish to grasp it. "Let me rephrase. Do you have a purpose?" "Purpose?" "Yes, purpose." — Constance's reflection (Chronicles of Ariah)
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"Do you have a dream?" Constance gazed at the writing that haunted her as it drew her thoughts and took it wandering to that year, when youth was alive and yellow was the color that signified dreams. The year when hearts were beating and dum was the sound of the sweat that beat within the veins. "Do I have a dream?, maybe, maybe not." Dream is a luxury I wish I still have, an echo from my depths saying I'm still alive. Oh how I wish to grasp it. "Let me rephrase. Do you have a purpose?" "Purpose?" "Yes, purpose."
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I saw my life as blank pages, a book where I could write whatever I wanted, however I wanted. I remember the years I spent trying so hard to make a mark one that never stayed. Now I’m back at the beginning of my story again: same blank pages, same ink, same book of life… but with a different plea, and a new conviction. Lord, I am tired. I acknowledge my pride, my will, my childishness the thought that I didn’t need You, that I was enough for myself. But I was beaten, scorned by a world that does not care if I exist. Now I say I am sorry. I need You. Your presence. Your existence. Please, write my story. Take my ink. Receive my book. I don’t want to do it myself anymore. I sit in walls that echo my failures, where the sound of despair drowns me, and the abyss calls. I ask for Your light it is all I can ask for, it is all I seek now. Bless me with Your forgiveness, and with Your mercy. — Orion's plea (Chronicles of Ariah)
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